


Memento Mori

by insidiouswords



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Horror, Past Rape/Non-con, Twisted Romance, no hannigram
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-22 06:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 89,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14302488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insidiouswords/pseuds/insidiouswords
Summary: Hannibal Lecter has a new patient imposed upon him, and at first he is none too pleased — that is, until he meets her. He senses a wealth of macabre beauty in Delilah Bloom, just beneath the surface, screaming to be freed.** Chapter 13 is finally up!! ♥️ **





	1. Chapter 1

_“All men should strive, to learn before they die,_

_What they are running from, and to, and why.”_

_–_ _James Thurber_ ****

****

 

**_ **_Prologue_ ** _ **

 

Blood is always uncomfortably warm when first spilled, but it cools quickly.

It cools, yes, but as it does, it becomes sticky— equally uncomfortable.

And yet more unpleasant still, as it dries, it crusts and stains everything.

Stains were the bane of Hannibal Lecter’s existence. Stains both literal and figurative in nature.

 

Take the one bleeding out before him, for example: Joseph Marks.

 

Joseph was once an auto mechanic, and a terrible one. Always overcharging while under-performing, and all with a terrible attitude and absolutely no manners to speak of. Not to mention, there was talk that he enjoyed using his wife and young son as punching bags during his downtime. _Tasteless._

But none of that mattered now. The stain would be washed away soon, and the pieces worth anything would hopefully make a fairly decent Braciole.

 

Soft gurgles infested the crisp night air as Hannibal watched Joseph crawl around on the dirty ground, stubbornly clinging to life. Under usual circumstances, he would have put the man down as quickly as possible; too much adrenaline at the end adds a distinct tang to the meat — not altogether unpleasant, just not something he generally preferred. This night, however, Hannibal felt the need to watch a bit of suffering. He was never one for dramatic declarations in these moments, so he stayed silent, observing passively as the man’s movements gradually slowed; eyeing the snot and tears running down his face with mild disgust as he followed alongside the dying man.

 

As his plastic-covered loafers scratched along the concrete behind the mechanic’s shop, Hannibal’s mind wandered to the events mere hours prior; the reason for his presently heightened annoyance, and the reason he felt the need to watch someone suffer, was none other than one Miss Alana Bloom. Part of him wanted it to be her dying slowly at his feet, but she had a fair bit of luck on her side. Being as close to the FBI as she was, it would be stupid to touch her… for the time-being.

 

 _“Hannibal, please,”_ she’d implored, her blue eyes working quite hard not to cry. _“I’ve tried everything. I’ve sent her to countless therapists, psychiatrists, professors… nothing is working! I’m afraid I’ll lose her completely to this. Please, as my esteemed colleague and friend, Hannibal, would you do this for me?”_ She’d taken a deep, shuddering breath then and, at least having enough sense to look marginally ashamed of herself, added softly, _“If you don’t, I… I’ll have to put her away.”_

 

Hannibal scoffed out loud and nudged Joseph with his foot. The man let out another obnoxious gurgle before the gash in his neck finally did its job, and his corpse sank into the pavement. “Finally,” Hannibal grumbled, fetching his large black bag and crouching down to assess its contents. “Now that you’ve taken your leave, I find you suitable to talk to,” he informed the corpse, smirking as he flipped the lump of flesh onto its back.

 

“She has a sister — I had no idea. Seldom, if ever, is there something I don’t know about those I choose to keep near, mind you. It appears I know more about _you_  than my own ‘friend,’” he mused bitterly, using a pair of hefty shears to slice open the man’s pant leg. He had surprisingly thin legs under all that denim, and Hannibal tutted softly. “So much for the Braciole, hm?” he asked, looking to the man’s glassy eyes as if he could reply. He then shrugged and ripped the man’s dingy shirt open, taking up a scalpel and slicing a precise Y-incision down his sternum. Rifling in his bag, he located a pair of what outwardly appeared to be simple pruning shears and, after peeling the folds of skin back to either side, began snipping at the cartilage connecting the ribs to the breast bone.

 

“Three weeks,” he went on, being a little more forceful than necessary as he went about painstakingly removing each rib. “I told her no three weeks ago and yet she shows up, in the night, unannounced, and tries to guilt me into doing her a favor-” He paused and grunted slightly as he wriggled loose a particularly stubborn bit of bone.

 

“Well, she succeeded,” he corrected himself. “I’ll be meeting with the mystery woman on Wednesday — I told her we will have a conversation, but I make no promises… I must admit I do enjoy a little mystery, now and then. Don’t we all?” He smirked down at the silent corpse, then scowled and grabbed a tuft of Joseph’s hair, forcing the dead man to nod; the movement urged a bit more blood from the gash across his throat, punctuating the steamy air around Hannibal and the corpse with a nasty squelching sound that rather amused him.

 

With the ribs all in a nice pile by the man’s head, he began rooting around in the freshly opened cavity. Ignoring the lungs, as he knew the man was a heavy smoker, he dug his plastic and glove-clad arm deeper, finding the liver. “I must admit, Miss Delilah Bloom is an enigma that deeply intrigues me,” he continued quietly, holding up the hunk of meat and shining a small flashlight to inspect it. To his surprise, it was a deep mahogany; smooth and plump. It was perfect.

 

“Huh. I truly would have expected you to be an alcoholic, Joseph,” he mused, carefully wrapping the liver in plastic and temporarily storing it in a small ice box. “I don’t know whether this makes your abhorrent behavior better or worse, to be honest.” He thought to stop there, but the catharsis of talking out his grievances with someone who couldn’t argue or ask questions was too tempting; diving back in, he fished about for the kidneys.

 

“I find myself terribly curious as to why she can’t keep a psychiatrist. Her file appears to be useless.” He sighed then, finding only one kidney, and decided to quit while he was ahead; he’d already been here far too long. “Granted, I only skimmed it before coming to pay you a visit,” he admitted, wrapping up his tools and storing them in the section of the bag reserved for things that needed cleaning. “But understand, it was just pages of mindless textbook regurgitation. Nothing of substance…

 

“She’s evidently lashed out at a couple of people, but never actually harmed anyone — which is a shame, really; judging by their notes, I’d say they would have deserved it.” Hannibal smirked down at the mutilated body before removing his gloves, snapping the bag shut, and rising to his feet.

 

“Well, seeing as it’s…” He paused to peer down at his Rolex and frowned. “Nearly three in the morning, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you like this, Joseph. I do hope your wife doesn’t find you, though I’m sure she’ll be pleased when she hears the news.”

 

Carefully removing his plastic overcoat and pants, he neatly folded them up and slipped them into the outside compartment of the bag, along with his gloves. Abandoning the mutilated corpse without another word, he made the trek from the shop back to his car, about a mile down the road.

 

When he arrived at his vehicle, he peeled the plastic bits off his shoes and placed them in the bag, then carefully set the bag and ice box in the trunk.

 

The hour long drive home gave him yet more time to ponder. Hannibal found he was much less frustrated now, when he thought about Alana and her secret-keeping; his focus was now mostly on the mystery of her dear sister. What made Miss Delilah Bloom so difficult that no one wanted to keep her on as a patient? Surely a couple physical altercations wouldn’t deter so many professionals, given such things were fairly commonplace when dealing with people suffering from various mental ailments. So many different diagnoses were scattered throughout her file: Oppositional Defiant Disorder, which was doubtful unless she was twelve; Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Schizophrenia, which were all doubtful as well; a handful of Dissociative Disorders, which seemed to be leaning the most in the right direction; and the list went on. It was as if these idiots were simply closing their eyes and pointing at pages of the DSM-5.

 

He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

 

Arriving at his home just before four in the morning, Hannibal gathered up his things and made his way down to the basement. Even with the late hour, he took care to thoroughly wash and disinfect every tool he’d used, replacing them one by one into the bag and setting it aside for next time. He then brought the little ice box up to the kitchen and flipped through his recipe cards.

 

_Iscas de Fígado_

_Portuguese marinated liver, with sliced potatoes_

 

“This should do nicely, Joseph,” he murmured aloud, gathering up ingredients for the marinade and setting to work. He took his time trimming and deveining the liver, then cut it into paper-thin slices with expert precision. Setting the meat in a glass dish, he seasoned it liberally with salt and freshly ground pepper, before adding four whole cloves of crushed garlic, two bay leaves, two-thirds a cup of chardonnay, and a tablespoon of white wine vinegar. Giving the meat a light toss to coat it in the marinade, he then sealed the dish and placed it in the fridge. It needed at least twelve hours, which would have it ready just in time for dinner that very night.

 

With the kitchen clean, he then took a long hot shower, and by the time all was said and done it was a quarter past 5AM. Donning only a towel around his waist, he wandered to the study to check his schedule. He was pleased to find he only had one appointment that day, and it was much later in the day — meaning he would be able to get some much needed rest.

 

Fully intending to finally turn in, he crossed the room to shut off the light and spotted Delilah Bloom’s file still resting on the mantle. He’d only glossed over it after Alana had left, as he’d told the pile of carrion earlier, and he sighed heavily. “May as well give you a more thorough read before tomorrow,” he muttered to the yellow folder, plucking it from the mantle and flipping the light off before heading off to bed.

 

** ****  
**

* * *

 

** ****  
**

**_ **_Chapter 1_ ** _ **

 

__

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s Office,_

_687 Bayshore Ave - Suite 200, Baltimore, MD_

_Wednesday - 1:47PM_

 

 

Learning about Delilah Bloom, as it turned out, proved to be a rather difficult task for Hannibal Lecter, as there frankly wasn’t much information to be found. Within the yellow folder had lain only six sheets of paper and, as he’d gleaned from his initial pass over the material, the majority were filled with half-assed diagnoses and assumptions — nothing he deemed worthy enough to colour his opinion prematurely. Only her standard patient information had given him pause. It held the typical information: full name, date of birth, social, height, weight, etc. And he gathered most notably from this page that Delilah was twenty-seven years old, precisely six years younger than her sister. The outwardly innocuous information struck a chord with him somewhere deep down, in a place he hadn’t visited in quite some time; he had lost sleep from stress for the first time in decades, thinking of his late baby sister, Mischa.

 

Though it still annoyed him, Hannibal could understand why Alana was so protective of her little sister.

 

Absently tapping his thumb on his desk as he watched the clock tick nearer to two-thirty, he reflected upon the way he’d treated Alana last they’d spoken. Overcome with excitement by his eventual capitulation, she had been brazen enough to kiss him, and his reaction had been less than pleasant. He hadn’t been outwardly rude, of course, but he did politely acknowledge the contact with an incline of his head. Hannibal didn’t reciprocate, however; instead bidding her goodnight and promptly shutting the door behind her. The poor thing had looked more than a little put out.

 

It was no big secret that his former student was a bit enamoured, and he’d merely seized an opportunity to dissuade her interest. He would endeavor to be a bit friendlier to her today, but he truly hoped it had worked. Her feelings for Will Graham were just as painfully obvious, such is the way with people who wear their hearts on their sleeves, and he intended to urge them nearer — the pair were emotional little time bombs and Hannibal was intrigued to discover what would happen when they inevitably imploded.

 

At precisely 2:28PM, Hannibal heard a commotion filtering up the stairs outside his office’s main doors. Slipping Delilah Bloom’s altogether useless file back into his desk drawer, he crossed the large room to stand and eavesdrop a moment.

 

“We are going to be late, come on!” Alana hissed, sounding deeply flustered. “Let’s not piss off Dr. Lecter, okay? I’m already on thin ice with him as it is.” Some shuffling ensued followed by a light thump as one of the pair dropped themselves into a seat in the waiting room — the other, Alana he assumed, opted instead to pace incessantly.

 

“What exactly is he going to do, Alana,” a quieter, calmer voice began, and Hannibal closed his eyes to listen intently to her voice, “murder us in cold blood for being half a minute late?”

 

Alana scoffed as Hannibal tilted his head. _What a peculiar response._

 

There was a second’s pause before Delilah added, “We’re a full minute early, anyway, so you can stop skittering around.”

 

The frenetic pacing halted just as Hannibal glanced at the clock. “Did you remember to take your med-” Alana had started, but the moment the clock struck 2:30, he pulled the white door open without warning and took in the scene before him.

 

Two sets of deep blue eyes found him standing tall in the doorway and, as expected, Alana was frozen in the center of the room, while the younger Miss Bloom was seated delicately on the edge of a chair. Hannibal offered them a courteous smile, stepping aside and gesturing them into the office.

 

“Alana,” he acknowledged warmly as she moved past him first, not missing some of the tension leaving her shoulders at his friendly use of her first name; he then turned to the other female and sized her up for a moment. Though the shade of her and Alana’s eyes were nearly identical, there was a world of difference in the rest of their features. Where Alana’s hair was waves dark as chocolate, Delilah had a head full of curls fair as wheat; where his colleague had strong and angular, yet still feminine features, his potential patient had delicate, soft lines to her face. He approximated Delilah was no taller than five-foot-two, at least four inches shorter than her sister and nearly a foot shorter than himself.

_Curious._

 

He watched her much fuller lips briefly turn up at the corners, into a clearly forced smile, as she rose from her seat.

 

“Miss Bloom, please come in.”

 

Unbeknownst to the petite blonde, Hannibal Lecter took a deep, purposeful, inhale just as she passed him to enter his office. Violets, ripe plum, and vetiver invaded his senses first, with the underlying heady notes of tonka bean and spice following close behind. Sweet and crisp on the surface, with an intriguing darkness lurking just beneath. Such an intoxicating blend… one that was suddenly overshadowed by the cheap, alcohol-forward nonsense Alana most likely found on discount at the mall, as she rushed forward to breathe yet another thank you toward him. Resisting the urge to sneer, he instead smiled politely and quietly shut the door behind him.

 

“Would either of you care for some water?” he inquired, his eyes trailing Delilah as she ignored everything around her to stand beside one of the massive windows and gaze out into the street. Her slender fingertips toyed with the red and gray curtain at her side but she made no move to suggest she’d heard him at all.

 

Alana stared at her unresponsive sister, looking equal parts annoyed and concerned, before turning to answer for the pair of them. “We’d love some water, Hannibal, thank you.”

 

Striding off to fetch three glasses of mineral water, he exited through the door behind his desk and purposefully left it cracked, listening as they immediately began to bicker amongst themselves.

 

“Stop that, you’ll ruin it!” Alana whispered fervently.

 

A heavy sigh escaped the blonde. “I’m not ruining anything, Alana. It’s just a curtain, for Christ’s sake.”

 

“...Did you take your medication?”

 

“My sugar pills, you mean? Yes.” Delilah replied with a light snort as Hannibal began slicing off three identical circles of a lime.

 

“Knock it off. They’re not placebos; how many times do I have to tell you?”

 

Cutting a paper thin wedge out of each slice, he fixed one snug on the rim of each glass before quietly placing them on a silver serving tray. Even water deserved at least a modicum of presentation.

 

Hannibal lingered a moment still in the doorway, looking up just in time to catch a glint of malice in Delilah’s eyes as she rounded on her sister.

 

“I took the damned pills, _mother_ ,” Delilah hissed, finally cracking her laissez-faire façade. “I was a good little girl at lunch, I haven’t snapped at your precious damned doctor, and I’m not ruining this fucking curtain just by touching it — you act like I’m _diseased_ , Alana!”

 

At that, Hannibal cleared his throat gently and both women turned to watch him reenter the office. The pair had cheeks of rose, Alana’s from embarrassment and Delilah’s from anger. He could taste the faintly ozone-tinged scent of rage as it cut through the delicious perfume she wore; to his surprise though, and to her credit, she managed to keep herself in check and was polite enough to thank him for the glass of water that she took. Absently smoothing out the skirt of the cashmere sweater dress, which he couldn’t help noticing hugged her curves perfectly, the flaxen-haired female glared daggers at her sister as she took a deep swig of mineral water. Hannibal sucked in a breath before looking to Alana as well.

 

“I must apologize, Alana, but I think you should leave us for the remainder of Miss Bloom’s hour.”

 

“Her hour? But--”

 

“Please, Alana,” he cut her off, forcing himself to stay kind but firm. “I truly think it would be best. Sibling squabbles are not my forte.”

 

The red flush of embarrassment deepening and creeping down her chest, Alana nodded jerkily and turned on her heel to march straight out the double doors, her own glass of water forgotten on the serving tray. Neither Hannibal nor Delilah flinched when she unsurprisingly slammed the door shut behind her.

 

A heartbeat’s length of silence followed before Delilah’s eyes shifted to Hannibal’s and she asked softly, “Do you have anything stronger than water?”

 

Hannibal’s lips parted and he blinked at her a moment before turning to set the platter on the couch. “I do…” he finally replied, straightening himself up and absently smoothing out his jacket as he peered down at her. “However, I wouldn’t advise it with any medication you may be taking. Would you mind telling me what you’ve been prescribed?”

 

He already knew, of course. Delilah Bloom was on a cocktail of Zoloft and quetiapine, an anti-depressant and an anti-psychotic, respectively. The combination was generally effective in allowing a person with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder to maintain a sense of normalcy, though for such severe conditions they were relatively useless without the addition of intensive cognitive behavioral therapy. But Hannibal doubted very much that Delilah was suffering from either of these conditions.

 

“Shouldn’t you already know, Doctor?” She grumbled. “I’m sure you’ve read my file. Or are you trying to catch me in a lie?”

 

Allowing himself a small smirk, he nodded and motioned toward the leather chair in which his patients usually sat. “Yes, Miss Bloom, you’ve caught me,” he confirmed, watching her slowly make her way to the chair. Once she gingerly placed herself upon the edge of the seat, he undid the lower button of his suit jacket and sat down across from her. As he observed her, Delilah worried her lower lip between her teeth and stared intently at the condensation slipping down the sides of her glass.

 

Resting his left ankle upon his right knee, he leaned back and watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she took several deep breaths, each coming quicker than the last; he assumed she was either debating making a run for it, or about to have some sort of violent episode…

 

To his utter surprise, however, neither occurred, and her rapid breathing that had begun to flirt with hyperventilation suddenly steadied.

 

“Fifty milligrams of Zoloft every night,” she finally spoke, her now slightly shaky voice barely above a whisper, “and one hundred milligrams of quetiapine, twice daily.”

 

“Why do you think you’re taking placebos?”

 

Her eyes narrowed at once and he offered an apologetic smile. “Forgive me for eavesdropping… but you two were rather loud.”

 

Delilah ducked her head in shame and tucked a curl behind her ear. “S’alright,” she mumbled, clearing her throat. She seemed lost in thought for a moment or two, before she finally took a deep breath and shrugged. “They don’t do anything besides make me feel funny,” she said simply.

 

Hannibal stayed quiet a moment before rising and holding a hand to her. “May I check your pulse?” He phrased it as a question, but his tone left no room for refusal. With an indignant little sniff, she set her glass down on the side table and offered her wrist to him; she yelped as he snatched it and pulled her up to her feet, holding her nearer to him. Two fingers found the pulse point in her delicate wrist with ease, and he politely instructed her to keep silent.

 

Thirty seconds passed with Hannibal’s fingertips digging into her wrist, his eyes focused solely on the clock. He then sighed and let her go, shaking his head in disappointment. “You seem to be experiencing a mild arrhythmia,” he explained, pacing back to his seat. “A common side effect of quetiapine... not a ‘sugar pill.’ If you choose to take me on as your psychiatrist, I am going to urge you to stop taking it at once-- frankly, I would insist either way.”

 

“If I choose…” She muttered, taking his cue to sit back down as she squinted at him questioningly. “You’re saying I actually have a choice in the matter?”

 

“You always have a choice, Miss Bloom, in anything. Never forget that. I know Alana is quite adamant about you seeing me for therapy, but I have no desire to keep any patients as hostages.”

 

Delilah nodded thoughtfully and he watched her toy with the cheap bit of lacquered metal that adorned her left thumb. She caught his eye as he silently appraised the bit of jewelry, and scowled a little. “Well, if I get to choose then I think I choose not to,” she said flatly, covering her left hand with her right, effectively shielding the trinket from his view.

 

“I think it’s rather charming,” he said simply, his serene facade belying the amusement he felt bubbling just beneath the surface at her shocked expression. “Minimalist jewelry suits you…” He pointed at her still hidden hand and added, “A trinket of youth, I assume?”

 

“It’s a mood ring. Alana bought it for me at the fair one year,” she explained softly. “When I was sixteen she came home from college for a visit and took me. It was nice.” Her eyes sparkled a bit at the pleasant memory before she returned to the present and let out a puff of laughter. “She always teases I have no soul because it always stays black. Which makes absolutely no sense…”

 

Hannibal allowed himself a small grin. “Who’s to say any of us has a soul, anyway?”

 

A bizarrely comfortable silence descended as Delilah lost herself in thought, and he allowed it for several long minutes, using the time to take mental note of how well she took care of herself; if her long, perfectly manicured nails and impeccably applied makeup were any indication, appearances were clearly very important to her. It was quite evident even in the way she dressed, as well; the hem of the sage-coloured cashmere dress resting at just the right place on her thighs — not so high as to be deemed scandalous, and just low enough to still show off her shapely legs. Aside from the little slip of metal on her thumb, she wore no other jewelry that he could see, and on her feet were a pair of tasteful, taupe high heels. He wondered if she dressed like this all the time, or if this was just her formal attire.

 

He suddenly found himself imagining what she looked like in jeans, and decided he’d better cut his own train of thought off right there.

 

“Tell me, Miss Bloom, why do you think you are here?”

 

“Because no one else wants to put up with me,” she blurted out, crossing her arms and scowling at a spot over his shoulder.

 

“What makes you so difficult to ‘put up with,’ as you say?”

 

Delilah sighed heavily. “I’m stubborn, mouthy, unforthcoming at inopportune times, and… Sometimes I get lost.”

 

“Lost?” He canted his head curiously.

 

“Mm,” she hummed, studying everything else in her field of view to avoid making eye contact. “Inside my head,” she explained. “Sometimes I just… go somewhere else. When I come back I have no memory of where I was, or what I was doing, but people tell me I’ve done things.”

 

“What sorts of things?”

 

“Oh, let’s see,” she began thoughtfully, taking a deep breath through her nose and exhaling loudly out her mouth. “Doctor Marlene attempted hypnotherapy, and she said that when she approached me I tried to bite her; Doctor Snyder claimed I suddenly started crying and throwing things around his office, for no conceivable reason.

 

Then, there was Mrs. Baker… Awful, twitchy woman. She wasn’t an actual therapist, but a professor at the university. She said I just shut down and wouldn’t speak to her. I would sort of mutter to myself and try to leave, but I wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence. Alana brought me back to her twice more but evidently the same thing would happen within the first five to ten minutes, every time, without fail.

 

“So, I’ve been living with Alana for the better part of the last year and she’s even attempted her own brand of therapy from time to time. It seems you are her last resort before she gives up completely, Doctor Lecter, and… oh I don’t know, commits me to an asylum or something clichéd like that.”

 

Frowning, he re-adjusted himself in his seat and smoothed the lapels of his coat, taking mental note of each name mentioned. He would write them down later, in a notebook set aside specifically for her. “What makes you say that, Miss Bloom?”

 

“Because, until about noon yesterday, I didn’t even know you existed,” she replied flatly.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Alana likes to compartmentalize... I suppose that’s to be expected in your line of work,” Delilah added pensively, “but the fact that she’s merging her personal and professional life like this leads me to believe she is at the end of her rope with me.”

 

Hannibal studied her thoughtfully, his cup of interest in this woman practically overflowing as he watched her eyes finally lock onto his. There was a not so subtle challenge swimming in those azure pools — she expected him to cast her aside, like everyone else, like she anticipated her own sister would — and he allowed himself a genuine smile. “Well, Miss Bloom,” he began kindly, “I must say I’m quite grateful Alana has reached the end of said rope.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Indeed,” he nodded, “I think I may be of great service to you.”

 

Confusion coloured her sweet face and he relished it as she muttered, “But… I’ve already said I don’t want to be your patient…?”

 

There it was, a hint of doubt. A crack in the foundation of her resolve. It came sooner than he would have thought, but he nevertheless latched onto it like a starved lion to a gazelle.

 

“Be that as it may,” he said, his voice still ever so soft and kind, “I don’t think you truly mean it. I think you feel far more comfortable with me than you care to let on...” He trailed off a moment and tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. Hannibal watched her face closely as he continued honestly, an edge to his tone now, “I find myself very intrigued by you. More importantly, I find I __want__  you as my patient. And I think you know it would be in your best interest to accommodate me.”

 

Her cheeks reddened and she ducked her head, overcome with a sudden shyness that he found himself choosing to call endearing rather than annoying. “And w-uh-why don’t I mean it, Doctor Lecter?” she stammered.

 

“Because, Miss Bloom, we’ve been speaking for nearly half an hour, and not once have you dissociated,” he said simply, knowingly. “Not once have you shut me out, or tried to throw things… and not once have you tried to bite me.” He added the last bit with a small wink, enjoying the way it darkened the colour in her cheeks even further.

 

Clearly not believing him, she turned and squinted up at the clock on the wall, her eyes blinking twice before she slowly turned back to face him. “So we have,” she conceded, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip as she stared at him.

 

Hannibal had the distinct impression she was studying him now, sizing him up properly for the first time, and the notion pleased him. She was clearly opening up to the idea of becoming his patient, but she was being cautious, which was smart.

 

“How long have you been a psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

 

“Nearly a decade.”

 

“And what did you do before then?”

 

“Prior to psychiatry, I was a surgeon, Miss Bloom.”

 

One slender, honey-toned brow crept up her pale forehead. “That’s quite a jump.”

 

“How do you figure?”

 

Delilah shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back into her seat. “Well, I mean, surgery takes a specific kind of person, I think. It’s so… hands-on. And psychiatry is very much not. I would think someone who chose first to be a surgeon would be bored to tears simply listening to people’s whining every day.”

 

Smirking, Hannibal canted his head in assent. “It can be tedious, at times, yes.”

 

Without asking him to elaborate, she switched topics abruptly.

 

“Where are you from?”

 

His eyebrows shot to the ceiling and she smiled sheepishly. “Your accent, I mean… I’m sorry, was that rude?”

 

“No, Miss Bloom… I was born in Lithuania, and spent the majority of my formative years in France.”

 

“Ah,” was all she replied. After a moment of silence, she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear again — her embarrassed tell, he noted — and muttered, “It’s nice.”

 

Having heard her perfectly clearly, he grinned internally while offering her a politely puzzled look.

 

“Pardon, Miss Bloom?”

 

“Y-your accent,” she clarified, only slightly louder, “I think it’s quite nice.”

 

“Why, thank you, Miss Bloom,” Hannibal replied. Listening to her whispered ‘you’re welcome,’ he glanced briefly at the clock to find another ten minutes had passed.

 

“I’m sorry to say our time is very nearly up,” he announced, and she quickly whipped around to check the clock for herself yet again.  _Trust issues, clearly; no surprise there._  She slowly twisted back around, looking altogether crestfallen, and he had to rub at his face to actively hide a grin behind his hand.

 

Once the moment had passed and his politely passive expression had settled back into place, he stood and refastened the buttons of his suit jacket, then held a hand out to help her up as he asked pointedly, “So, Miss Delilah Bloom, have you come to a decision?”

 

She eyed his hand a moment before gingerly slipping her fingertips onto his palm and allowing him to pull her to her feet. The pair stared at each other in silence as the clock struck precisely 3:30, neither moving a muscle until Alana’s knock sounded at the door. They both took a sudden half step backward at the sound, and the blonde wrenched her hand away as if his were on fire. Her eyes drifted to the door, then back to his own.

 

“…Alright, Doctor Lecter, you win,” Delilah finally declared, her tone steadfast and nearly tranquil in its certainty. “I’m all yours.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_ **Chapter 2** _ **

 

_I-95 South_

_Thursday_

 

 

Approximately 8:30AM the following morning found the sisters Bloom on the road, headed from Alana’s two bedroom apartment in Baltimore, to a place called Wolf Trap, Virginia. They’d already been driving for over half an hour, and the younger of the pair fidgeted in the passenger seat of her sister’s hybrid, scowling down at her to-go cup of coffee. “This is friggin’ stupid,” she griped, knowing full well how childish she she sounded and not caring one damn bit.

 

“’Lilah, please,” Alana implored exasperatedly. “I don’t know how long this will take and I can’t leave you alone, okay?”

 

“Why not?”

 

At that, the elder sister gave her a withering glare, and Delilah huffed in annoyance. “I haven’t done anything! I agreed to see your damn psychiatrist, and I haven’t had a single episode in-… in like three days! I--”

 

Alana slammed her hands on the steering wheel in frustration. “Damn it, Delilah, who gives a shit?! Things like this don’t just disappear!”

 

“Oh, and dumping me off with some boyfriend of yours is gonna be any--”

 

“Stop that,” Alana snapped, “stop it right now. Will Graham is not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend. You guys can hang out, watch some TV, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

Delilah made a show of rolling her eyes but said nothing and instead took a deep swig of her crappy, lukewarm coffee. Only six years separated them, and they were both grown adults, yet Alana still insisted on treating her like a moody teenager.

 

That irritating little voice of reason, the one that sounded obnoxiously like Alana, chimed in in the back of her mind--

‘ _ _Well, you’re sure as hell acting like one right now,__ ’ it whispered condescendingly, and Delilah pouted as she glowered out the window.

 

Whether or not her conscience spoke the truth, Delilah still couldn’t help but be annoyed that her sister seemed to only view her as a problem that needed to be solved. She wasn’t a damn Rubix cube; there was no algorithm to follow that would reveal the solution to what was going on with her. Deep down, she knew precisely what was causing her fits of mental instability, but if she focused on it enough to speak the words, she was inevitably sent crashing headlong into yet another one.

 

After several miles of tense silence, Alana sighed and finally loosened her iron grip on the steering wheel a bit. “Look,” she started again softly, “I know this is weird. I know. But… Will is a good man. He’s a little strange, but… I mean, so are you,” she ended teasingly, offering a small grin which Delilah refused to mirror.

 

“Why couldn’t you just have Dr. Lecter babysit me?” she grumbled impulsively, her mind conjuring up unbidden images of impeccably styled hair and expensive, perfectly tailored suits. “Wouldn’t have to drive all the way out to bumfuck, Virginia…”

 

“Because,” Alana hissed through gritted teeth, “Dr. Lecter is busy with patients all day and I doubt he wants you loitering in his waiting room all morning.”

 

At that, the remainder of the trip was spent in a remarkably uncomfortable silence. For fifteen solid minutes, Delilah internally debated apologizing for her shitty attitude, but ultimately thought better of it as Alana abruptly jerked the car to the right and she spilled now ice cold gas station coffee on her pant leg. “God damn it, Alana!”

 

“Sorry, jeez!” She snapped, pulling onto the driveway. “Thought I saw a rabbit.”

 

Delilah turned her scowl to the glove compartment and fished out a few napkins to sop up the liquid on her jeans, grumbling under her breath that this wouldn’t have happened if she’d just been allowed to sleep the day away in peace, when suddenly she heard a cacophony of dogs barking. “What the…” She muttered, peering up over the hood to find a scruffy male peeking out the front door of the white farmhouse. The hounds she’d heard were spotted filing out around and through his legs, and Delilah let out a huff of mirthless laughter. “Oh great, he’s one of _those,_ ” she muttered, pointedly ignoring Alana’s death glare as they parked and stepped out of the car. A couple of the bigger dogs made a beeline for Delilah and she slammed her back against the car door, a thrill of fear racing up her spine at the sudden onslaught of drool and teeth.

 

“They- um, they don’t bite,” the exhausted-looking man she assumed was Will called out to her, scratching at his head as he held a tatty robe closed around himself and meandered off the porch toward Alana.

 

“Super,” Delilah replied unenthusiastically, cringing away as the dogs tried to leap up and slobber on her face. “Still, could you- could you maybe tell them to stop?”

 

Will let out a couple of high pitched whistles in rapid succession, and the canines darted off at once. Dusting herself off, Delilah mumbled her thanks and quickly paced across the lawn to join her sister.

 

A beat of awkward silence was broken when Alana cleared her throat and told Will pointedly, “Abigail’s awake.”

 

All sleepiness left Will Graham’s eyes the moment he heard Alana’s words. He was at once alert, concerned, and evidently upset as he suddenly grabbed her arm and ushered her toward the house, away from Delilah. “Why didn’t you call me? I could have met you at the-- at the, you know. A-a-and _who_  is _she,_ ” was all the blonde heard before they were too quiet and too far away for her to make anything out. She didn’t bother to follow or eavesdrop. Instead, she focused her attention sideways on the mutts darting in and out of the woods, hoping they wouldn’t come to bother her again.

 

Delilah wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the pair finally came trudging back over to her, but both looked terribly annoyed.

 

“’Lilah,” Alana called, dragging her attention to her and the male, “this is Will Graham. Will, this is Delilah, my little sister.”

 

“Hi,” Will muttered flatly.

 

With a sigh, Delilah replied with nothing more than a disgruntled ‘hi,’ as well.

 

“Well, uh… Now that introductions are out of the way,” Alana continued, her eyes shifting back and forth between them. “I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?”

 

Both Will and Delilah grumbled half-assed words of assent as they watched Alana get back into her hybrid and take off. Dust trailed after the silver car and they stared as it slowly dissipated with the breeze. Scratching at her nose, Delilah finally turned to face her new babysitter. “Sorry,” she mumbled, ignoring his look of confusion. “Alana can be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes.”

 

“She’s just concerned about you,” Will replied immediately, and she shrugged.

 

Before yet more awkward silence could pass, he cleared his throat loudly and gestured up the stairs to his front door. “Um, want coffee?”

 

Looking down at her half empty paper cup, she shrugged again and marched past him, right into the house. She found her way to the small kitchen easily and threw her cup in the bin just as she heard Will shut the door. He didn’t lock it, she noticed, and for that she felt a small sense of relief. She glanced up from the trash to find him standing awkwardly by the countertop.

 

“I… Uh… I’ll be right back,” he muttered, abruptly turning away and disappearing down the hall.

 

A couple minutes later, he came back dressed in well-worn jeans and a flannel and wordlessly began fixing them a pot of coffee. About twelve minutes after that, they were both seated uncomfortably in Will’s living room, nursing their cups of scalding black liquid.

 

“Never met a woman who didn’t take cream and sugar in her coffee,” he suddenly blurted out, and Delilah simply blinked at him.

 

“Implicit sexism,” she finally replied with a snort, “hell of a way to break the ice, Mr. Graham.”

 

Will’s brows knitted and he actually looked hurt as he replied sternly, “I’m not a sexist.”

 

“Could’a fooled me.”

 

“But I’m not!”

 

Delilah let out a peal of genuine laughter and shook her head. “Holy crap, I’m just messing with you!” she exclaimed, kicking off her shoes and setting her cup down on the coffee table so she could fold her legs under herself.

 

“...Oh, right,” he muttered, before taking a deep swig of his own beverage and coughing.

 

“Burn your tongue?”

 

He nodded vehemently as he gingerly placed his cup down on the table with a strained, “Yep.”

 

Chuckling lightly and feeling a touch less awkward, Delilah turned her attention to her surroundings. His furnishings were minimal, nothing excessive or expensive, with every item she saw having a clear and specific purpose. He was evidently the very antithesis of Dr. Lecter, she thought, though she couldn’t fathom why he kept popping up in her mind.

 

“…Do you work with Dr. Lecter?” She asked before she could stop herself.

 

Clearly taken aback by the obscure change in topic, Will chewed on the corner of his mouth for a moment, then shook his head. “Um, not really? He’s sort of my therapist.”

 

“’Sort of?’” she parroted, one expertly maintained brow quirked in confusion.

 

“It’s kind of like, um, under the table psychiatry? I do work for the FBI and my boss sort of, uh…” He paused a moment, eyes searching around the room as he cherry picked his next words. “My boss thinks I am… in need of… someone to talk to.”

 

Delilah nodded slowly, leaning forward and snatching up her coffee to take a small sip. “Doesn’t think you can handle it, huh?”

 

“No!” He practically shouted at her, his sudden increase in volume causing her to lurch; thankfully, she managed not to spill coffee on herself again. “Er, sorry,” he mumbled, lowering his voice. “No, it’s just… I-I just, well… Well, yeah,” he finally conceded, sighing heavily. “After the Hobbs case, he thinks I’m… fragile.”

 

Squinting, thoroughly puzzled, Delilah shuffled around on the couch to face his armchair directly. “So, why the hell are you still working for the FBI, then?”

 

“Because I’m good at what I do,” he replied evenly.

 

“Ah,” was all she could think to reply, busying herself with studying the fishing lures by the window and wracking her brain for a change of topic.

 

“So who’s Abigail--”

“Why did Alana--”

 

The pair stopped mid-conflicting-sentences and blinked at one another. “Um, ladies first,” Will muttered, taking another tentative sip from his cup.

 

“Who’s Abigail?” she repeated without hesitation, having been curious ever since hearing the name. “Alana’s never talked about her before. Though, I assume it has something to do with the FBI, and she never talks to me about work.”

 

Scratching at the scruff on his cheek, Will stood up and began slowly wandering around the living room. “She’s… Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about the-uh, the Minnesota Shrike?”

 

“That serial killer who offed a bunch of girls and tried to kill his daughter?”

 

Will nodded jerkily, clearly uncomfortable with the topic at hand. Still, he pressed on. “Abigail Hobbs is the… she’s the daughter. He was a mess at the end, grasping at straws to kill; his wife and daughter were the last two straws.” She opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut as he continued, “I… I was there. I sh-shot him and we were able to keep Abigail stable until the medics could come. Well, _he_  was able to. I couldn’t… couldn’t get my hands to cooperate.”

 

“He?”

 

“Dr. Lecter held her throat to stop her from bleeding out. If he hadn’t been there I-… I don’t even want to think about what would have happened.”

 

“Oh,” Delilah whispered, staring down at the last dregs of her coffee. Clearing her throat delicately, she sensed it was time to stop this line of conversation. “So um, what- uh, what was your question?”

 

Dragging his top lip along his bottom teeth, he stared out the window for a full minute longer before turning his attention back to her. He rubbed his face and took a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling loudly as he plopped down on the couch, keeping a good two feet of distance between them. “I was going to ask why Alana brought you here.”

 

Delilah frowned. “She didn’t tell you?”

 

“Well, she didn’t say much. She just said you couldn’t be alone and that you were a bit, um, what was the word she used… _delicate_.”

 

A loud snort escaped Delilah at Alana’s choice of words, and she rolled her eyes to the heavens as she sighed exasperatedly. “I’m not a goddamn china doll,” she griped, jumping up and stomping into the kitchen to pour herself a fresh cup of coffee. She could hear the light slapping sound of Will’s bare feet as he followed her.

 

“If it means anything, I think you’re pretty enough to be a doll,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. He then added in a hushed tone, “I know what it feels like to have everyone think you’re breakable.”

 

Delilah stared at him for a moment, bewildered by his first statement. It didn’t exactly seem like flirting, and she didn’t quite know how to respond; instead, she focused on the second half and said candidly, “Well, Will Graham, I won’t treat you like a fragile little teacup if you don’t treat me like one, deal?” She held up the pot of coffee, silently offering to freshen his drink.

 

“Deal,” he replied with a nod, lifting his cup to her.

 

She refilled it and replaced the carafe, then leaned back against the counter. The pair slipped into amicable silence as they watched the once wispy white clouds grow darker and fatter, a storm beginning to creep in. As she swiveled her sock-clad feet around on the tile, her stomach gave an almighty rumble and she touched a hand to her middle.

 

“I’m hungry,” Delilah announced, abruptly setting her coffee down and moving to the refrigerator to peruse its contents.

 

“Uh, well--” He started, but Delilah, seeing nothing but half a carton of milk and some questionable eggs, huffed and slammed the fridge shut.

 

“What the hell do you eat, rocks and sticks?”

 

“ _Twigs_  have a lot of fiber, I’ll have you know,” he replied without missing a beat, and they shared a grin.

 

“You’re funny.”

 

“I have my moments.”

 

Tapping her nails on the counter, Delilah sighed and looked around the kitchen. Spotting a phone on the wall nearby, she snatched it up and turned to Will. “How about pizza?”

 

“Pizza?” He blinked and looked at his watch. “It’s barely ten.”

 

“So? Places open at ten. Are you food shaming me now? First the coffee, now pizza?”

 

With a puff of laughter, he snatched the phone from her and shook his head, mimicking her sarcastically, “You’re _funny_.” She watched as he pulled a takeout slip from a drawer and began dialing the number.

 

“I know,” she replied with a wide smile, before returning to her mug and taking a swig of coffee.

 

“Yeah uh, hi,” he spoke into the receiver. “I’d like a med--”

 

Delilah cleared her throat loudly and shook her head.

 

“...Er, a large?” He corrected questioningly, and she nodded happily. “Okay. Yeah, a large. With, uh… Everything?”

 

She nodded again, vigorously, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

 

“Yeah, I’m still here. Sorry… yeah, the works, whatever you wanna call it. Yep, delivery.” He rattled off his address as he meandered to the phone cradle at Delilah’s side. “Cash, yeah. Okay, thanks.” He hung up the phone, then stared at her a moment and shook his head. “Pizza for breakfast,” he muttered with an exaggerated sigh of feigned disappointment. “What would Dr. Lecter think?”

 

That caught her off guard and she coughed lightly on a mouthful of coffee. “What?”

 

“I’ve heard grand tales of the dinner parties Dr. Lecter throws at his house. Apparently he’s a great cook, and prefers only the finest ingredients.”

 

“I see,” she replied, trying and failing to imagine Hannibal Lecter flambeing and sauteing things in a full three piece suit. “I don’t see why I should care what he thinks, though.”

 

“Because you like him,” he said simply, and she choked on her coffee again as she spluttered to reply.

 

“I wha-”

 

“Everyone does. He’s well-respected; everyone cares about his opinion.” Will clarified flippantly, before squinting at her as though she’d sprouted a second head. “…Are you okay?”

 

“Went down the wrong tube,” she coughed out, patting at her chest and clearing her throat loudly.

 

“Try not to breathe it in next time,” he teased, nudging her arm. “But, seriously, your face is a tomato.”

 

Delilah shoved a curl behind her ear and began picking invisible lint from her pant leg. “I’m fine. It’s just… really warm in here.”

 

“Well…” He started, peering out the kitchen window to study the cloud cover. “Pizza’s gonna take at least twenty minutes. Wanna go for a walk before it starts raining?”

 

“...With your dogs?” She asked nervously, trying to hide the scowl she felt creeping up on her face.

 

Will laughed and sat his mug in the sink. “Come on,” he insisted, waving at her to follow as he marched off to the front door, “I promise I won’t let them jump on you.”

 

“Ugh, fine.” Throwing back the last of her drink, she sat her mug down as well and traipsed after him.

 

The next twenty or so minutes were spent wandering around Will’s property, with his horde of canines in tow. As promised, he’d made sure they gave her a wide berth, most of the time, and not one of them tried to jump or drool on her, for which she was extremely grateful. During the walk, Will talked mostly, educating Delilah on fly fishing-- something she could hardly care less about if she tried, but she was sure to nod politely and ask questions at all the proper times. Still, she knew by the time she left Wolf Trap she’d have forgotten the bulk of it.

 

Once the pizza arrived, Will took the effort to feed the dogs out on the porch, and Delilah even helped him fill the bowls; they then sat alone in the dining room and ate peacefully.

 

It was rather strange, how easy things seemed to be with Will Graham. She hardly knew him, but he was as nice and weird as Alana had claimed, and Delilah thought perhaps he would make a good friend. It had been a long time since she’d entertained the idea of being friends with someone of the opposite sex, but perhaps she could make an exception.

 

As she ate a third slice of pizza, she thought back on his comment about her being pretty, and realized she hadn’t felt even a moment of unease. He didn’t seem to expect anything from her and, even though she knew Alana had basically forced him to keep an eye her, for which he had every right to be pissed, he was still just genuinely kind.

 

When the pair had devoured over half the box, Will leaned back in his chair and sighed contentedly. “To hell with what Hannibal thinks,” he announced, “pizza for breakfast was a great idea.”

 

“Better than twigs?”

 

He let out an amused snort and nodded. “Yep. I’m gonna have pizza every morning from now on.”

 

“You’re gonna get _so_  fat,” she warned with mock seriousness.

 

“Fat and happy,” he agreed. “Livin’ the dream.”

 

Sharing a laugh, they then quickly cleared the table, and Delilah set to work on the dishes while Will simply crammed the box of leftovers into the bottom of the fridge. “Oh, uh, you don’t have to do that,” he muttered, sounding uncomfortable as he edged nearer.

 

“You paid for the pizza; I can wash four measly dishes,” she clipped, offering him a smile as she rinsed a freshly washed mug and set it on the drying rack.

 

“Well, uh… Okay,” he replied, still sounding terribly unconvinced. She almost wondered if he had some kind of neurotic disorder and didn’t like her touching his stuff, but upon further inspection, it seemed he was just restless with a lack of things to do. Her assessment was proven correct as she watched him shuffle back to the fridge, retrieve the pizza box, and unnecessarily place each slice in its own Ziplock baggie.

 

Delilah bit back a laugh and shook her head, turning back to the sink. She was only halfway through scrubbing a plate when Will broke the silence with an entirely unexpected question.

 

“So, uh, ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

 

Blood instantly began to thump in her ears at his words, and she wasn’t sure why; she froze in the middle of washing a plate. “Um.. I-I-… What?” she stammered unhelpfully, taking a few deep breaths to try to calm herself; hoping it was just the lingering effects of the quetiapine still in her system.

 

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” he repeated, wholly unaware of her present struggle as he tossed the bags of pizza back into the fridge. “We were talking about Hobbs earlier. Thought you might know about the Ripper.”

 

The deep breaths weren’t helping, and her tongue suddenly felt entirely too large and sticky in her mouth. Dropping the sponge, she grabbed the clean mug from the rack and ran it under the tap, taking a few quick sips of the unpleasantly mineral-filled water.

 

“I’ve just been going over the reports and I noticed there was one murder attributed to him that altogether makes no sense,” he went on, still utterly oblivious. “Just one. It-It doesn’t __feel__  like the Ripper… I mean, sure, the body was dismembered and put on display in a, you know, artsy kind of way, but the Ripper kills in batches… And there weren’t any other murders around the--”

 

“Wh-what was his name?” Delilah interrupted, the edges of her vision blurring inexplicably.

 

“Um… I can’t recall, hang on.” He turned at once and she watched over her shoulder as his shimmering outline moved from the kitchen and down the hall.

 

Violently shaking hands moved to set the partially washed plate and now dirtied mug into the draining rack, but she missed the mark completely and jumped back from the sink as they both bounced off the edge of the counter and shattered on the kitchen floor.

 

Will darted back into the kitchen, a hefty file in his hands. “Shit, Delilah, are you okay?”

 

“What was his name,” she ground out, fighting to keep herself focused on the rapidly disappearing figure of Will Graham beside her. His kitchen was quickly shifting into a disgustingly familiar garage, and her entire body was shaking so violently that her teeth began to chatter.

 

A beat of silence; a rustle of papers.

 

“He uh-… h-his name was Travis. Travis… Bloom?”

 

Just as gut-wrenching realization dawned on Will, Delilah Bloom’s eyes glazed over and before he could so much as think to reach out to her, the petite blonde let out a strangled sob and began sliding on her socks around the kitchen like a caged animal. She started ripping at cupboards and drawers, a discordance of sound assaulting his ears as various utensils both metal and plastic tumbled to the floor.

 

“D-Delilah, stop!” He stammered, hollering in his haste to snap her out of whatever the hell she was doing. She suddenly shoved him hard into the refrigerator and booked it out of the kitchen, the racket of his personal belongings being demolished chasing her in her wake.

 

Will cried out to her again and clambered after her through the chaos, cursing as he cut his feet on bits of glass, and sliding to a halt just as the front door thundered shut. With a quick glance at her own discarded sneakers, he stuffed his bare and now bloodied feet into his boots, then grabbed his coat and mobile phone before wrenching the door open and looking around frantically.

 

He finally caught a glimpse of Delilah’s golden hair just as she fled through the thicket of trees and disappeared into the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

_ **Chapter 3** _

 

_Port Haven Psychiatric Facility_

_Baltimore, MD_

 

“Aren’t you gonna answer your phone?” Abigail asked quietly, staring at the bag as it vibrated on the floor for the third time in the last ten minutes.

 

Alana’s eyes darted to her purse, then back up to the brunette teenager on the bed. “They’ll leave a message,” she replied, unconcerned. She assumed it was Jack Crawford, itching to tell her off for not bringing Will along to speak with the girl.

 

“But… what if it’s important?”

 

“Then they’ll probably leave a strongly worded message,” she said with a shrug, offering a small smile which Abigail returned after a moment.

 

“’Strongly worded,’ huh?” Abigail quirked a brow. “You get a lot of strongly worded messages?”

 

Laughing, Alana reached down beside her purse to fetch the small duffel bag full of teen appropriate items she’d put together. “Sometimes,” she muttered airily, handing her the bag.

 

The buzzing noise stopped and Abigail cleared her throat, wincing as the motion tugged at the wound on her neck. She took the bag hesitantly and sat it on her lap. “What’s this?”

 

“Just some stuff. Clothes, books, music. Little things to make your stay a little more comfortable.”

 

“ _Your_ clothes?” Abigail blurted, unable to stop herself from giving Alana’s skirt-suit ensemble an obvious once-over.

 

Alana chuckled again and shook her head. “No, I bought some things similar to what I’ve seen my sister wear. She’s a bit more… hip, I guess.”

 

At the word ‘hip,’ Abigail’s eyebrows shot to the roof and she pulled the zipper open to begin rifling through her new belongings. A nice pair of skinny jeans, a couple cute sweaters, a pretty green scarf, a brand new iPod, three recent bestsellers, and a small fortune’s worth of iTunes gift cards greeted her. Her wide eyes darted to Alana, who smirked.

 

“Not _my_ music, either,” she assured with a wink. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find enough to get you through-”

 

She was cut off by her purse vibrating yet again and she huffed in annoyance, reaching down to grab the damn thing and shut it off. As she flipped it over to do just that, she paused and frowned, noticing all the calls she’d ignored were from Will Graham.

 

“Maybe you should just answer-”

 

“Shit,” Alana breathed, hands shaking as she jumped to her feet and fumbled to answer it. “Will? Will, wha--”

 

“WHEN YOU DUMP SOMEBODY OFF ON SOMEONE ELSE,” his voice exploded from the receiver. Alana winced and held the phone further from her ear as he boomed scathingly, “AND YOU TELL THAT SOMEONE ELSE THAT THAT SOMEBODY IS _DELICATE_ , YOU ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE.”

 

Will’s shouting had been so loud that Alana had no doubt the teenager in the room had heard every word. She was making a good show of being busy unboxing her iPod, though. “What’s going on?” She hissed, turning away and walking to a corner of the room, as if that would help anything.

 

“Your sister flipped out and took off, that’s what’s going on!” Will snarled at her through labored breaths. She could hear the crunching of boots and snapping of twigs amid his panting.

 

“She ran into the woods?” She guessed, scrambling back across the room to grab her purse. She barely heard Abigail’s quiet ‘thank you,’ as she then fled from the room and psychiatric facility entirely.

 

“Yes!”

 

“How long ago?”

 

“About as long as I’ve been trying to call you- DAMN IT, ALANA!”

 

Switching to Bluetooth when she reached her car, she tossed her phone into the passenger’s seat and sped off, trying desperately to stay calm. “I’m sorry!” She snapped back, tears welling in her eyes as she pressed hard on the gas and silently willed the fifty-odd minute drive back to Will’s house to somehow halve or quarter itself.

 

The logical part of her brain told her it wasn’t that bad -- not yet. If Will had called her the moment Delilah disappeared, then she’d only been gone ten, maybe fifteen minutes. And even though the darkening clouds she’d seen on her way out told her a storm was headed to Wolf Trap, it was still daylight, at least. That helped.

 

“Delilah?!” Will’s panicked voice sounded from her speakers.

 

“I-It’s okay, Will,” Alana tried to reassure him, her voice quaking. “It’s still daylight a-and you’ll find her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

“She was so scared,” he mumbled, an audible shudder in his voice. “Jesus, what the hell is going on with her?”

 

“M-maybe she lied this morning and didn’t take her medication-”

 

“Her _medication_ , Alana?”

 

She cringed at that and shook her head, pushing on the gas pedal hard enough to send shooting pains up her leg. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, tears flowing freely now. “I just… I didn’t think anything would happen. She was fine! Sh-She hasn’t had an episode in three days,” she added, recalling Delilah saying the very same thing just hours prior.

 

“You know what? That is exactly it, Alana,” his voice hissed scathingly through her speakers. “You didn’t _think_.”

 

“Will, I--”

 

“Didn’t think to tell me she has ‘episodes,’” he barreled on, causing her to wince with shame. “Didn’t think to tell me she’s taking medication… _Medication_ , Alana? W-w-what if I’d offered her a drink, huh?”

 

“...At this hour of the--”

 

“THAT ISN’T THE POINT!”

 

“PLEASE DON’T YELL AT ME.”

 

Will fought to lower his voice as he repeated firmly, “That is not the point, and you know it.”

 

“I-I know,” she stammered, nodding shakily. “I screwed up, okay? I’m sorry… alright?”

 

“Sorry doesn’t automatically make everything better,” he grumbled, and she could only nod in agreement. “I’m gonna call the p--”

 

All sound cut off suddenly and Alana frowned. “…Will?”

 

Nothing.

 

“…Will? …WILL?!”

 

“I’ll bet she doubled back,” he finally whispered, and the heavy crunching of his footfalls through the woods sounded once again. Alana let out a heavy sigh of relief and slammed her hands on the steering wheel.

 

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me. Don’t _do_  that!”

 

“Well excuse the fuck out of me!” he snapped sarcastically. “I heard somethin’, alright?”

 

Thinking better of spitting a retort, Alana bit her tongue and continued speeding down the highway in silence. At least five minutes went by before he spoke again.

 

“She did- she doubled back. She’s by the barn,” he suddenly announced.

 

“I-Is she okay?”

 

“Well, she appears to be in one piece,” he replied, his voice low. “But I think I see blood… She’s going in now…”

 

All Alana could hear was the thrumming of her heartbeat in her ears as she waited with baited breath for any new information. A loud creak broke over the speakers, and it was deathly quiet for a moment more before she heard her sister’s voice, but it just sounded like noise. “Wh-what is she saying?”

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “She’s just walking around in- in circles, in the corner, muttering to herself. I can’t make out any words.” Alana opened her mouth to speak, but the creaking of the barn door sounded again and she could once again hear heavy rainfall in the background. “Okay look, she’s safe in there. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

 

“Y-Yeah, okay,” she muttered hesitantly, not wanting to be off the phone.

 

Nothing but the rain filled the car for several moments before Will finally sighed and spoke quietly. “You know… next time you want to keep me distracted, Alana? Just bring me a puzzle or something.”

 

In spite of all the stress and panic, Alana let out a puff of laughter and sniffed loudly, smearing mascara across her face as she swatted the tears away. “S-sure,” she replied. “And, Will? …I’m really sorry.”

 

With little more than a grunt of acknowledgment, Will hung up the phone.

After calling for an ambulance and cramming the phone into the front pocket of his jeans, Will leaned back under the shelter of the awning, and took a moment to indulge himself in quietly letting out a string of cuss words. His feet were killing him and he knew all the running around would have wedged the little slivers of glass annoyingly deep into his soles. He grimaced at the realization that soon enough he’d have an hour, or more, ahead of him with some nurse trying to clumsily pluck the sharp bits out of his skin with tweezers.

 

“See? This is what happens when you try to be nice,” he grumbled to himself.

 

A sudden slamming noise pulled him from his grousing, and Will quickly ducked back into the barn, wounds forgotten, to check on Delilah.

 

The slamming he’d heard was revealed to be her slapping the walls and dragging her palms against them, still muttering unintelligibly. He hung back to cautiously observe and noticed just how filthy she was; she had rips in the long sleeves of her blue cotton shirt, and the mud that caked her socks was splattered thigh-high up onto her jeans.

 

When she finally stopped her frenetic pacing in the corner, he realized blood was also smeared on the wood around her now, and he cautiously began to inch nearer as her soft sniffling and sobbing started up again.

 

Swallowing thickly, he took a deep breath and whispered her name as gently as he could manage. She didn’t seem to hear him, staying perfectly still and facing away. He cleared his throat and spoke louder, “D-Delilah?”

 

At once she swung around, cheeks stained with tears and smears of her once pretty mascara and lipstick. The blonde’s eyes drifted everywhere but never focused on Will’s own, her gaze darting all around and through him; he had the strange impression that she couldn’t even see him at that moment, though he stood barely four feet in front of her. She gnawed on her lip and began wringing her hands, as her sobs became punctuated with short, seemingly nonsensical phrases.

 

“Can’t wash it out…

 

“Always there.

 

“It’s okay… Is it okay?

 

“Bad… That makes it okay.”

 

She suddenly held out her palms to him, which were covered in blood and dirt. Through the grime, Will could make out several scratches and one relatively large cut just beneath the fingers of her right hand. “Not mine,” she whispered. “It’s not mine. Makes it okay… okay?”

 

Thoroughly confused, Will looked up from her hands and was startled to find she was actually looking him square in the eye. There was a hopeless pleading in her bloodshot baby blues that tugged at his heart strings, and he actually felt his own eyes well up with tears. “Y-uh… Yeah,” he assured softly, compelled to agree just to stop her from staring at him like that anymore. “It’s okay, Delilah.”

 

Her scratchy voice was heavy with emotion as she let out a shuddering breath and asked earnestly, needing validation for something he could hardly fathom, “It’s okay? Really?”

 

“It’s okay,” he repeated, hoping the quiver in his voice wouldn’t negate his attempt at sincerity.

 

She searched his eyes for what seemed like an eternity for Will and in all that time, the tears that threatened to spill onto his own cheeks finally fell. So much pain, doubt, confusion, and guilt washed over him that it was almost too much to bear. He wanted desperately to just flee from her presence, knowing it would take a long time to pull himself out of this pit she’d drug him into, but he also couldn’t find it in himself to place blame. Not on her. Alana, though, was another story.

 

“How can you say that,” she finally spoke again, a tinge of disgust creeping into her voice.

 

He opened his mouth to reply but faltered at that, his eyebrows knitting in utter bewilderment.

 

“How can you say it’s okay? You have no idea…” She trailed off a moment before squinting at him suspiciously. “ _Do you know?_ ”

 

“Know…? Know wha-”

 

Howling sobs suddenly filled the barn and he watched helplessly as she wrapped her arms around herself and sank to her knees. “You don’t know,” she whispered, curling in on herself and laying down on her side. “Nobody does. It’s okay… Not mine. I had to.”

 

Will stared in shock as she lay immobile on the dirty floor. Sirens wailed in the distance and he looked to the door before vigorously rubbing the moisture from his face and pacing over to Delilah. He was surprised to find she was sound asleep. Removing his coat, he carefully draped it over her, then shakily walked out of the barn to greet the paramedics.

 

After quickly letting his dogs into the house and out of the rain, Will was permitted to ride in the ambulance alongside the medic taking her vitals. As the ambulance shook along toward the hospital, he stared at her now perfectly serene face and mulled over the last hour’s worth of events. Something horrific had happened to Delilah Bloom, that much was plain. But what, he hadn’t the slightest clue. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.

 

* * *

 

 

_Reston Hospital Center,_

_1850 Town Center Parkway, Reston, VA_

_Approx. 40 minutes later_

 

 

“Every goddamn light,” Alana grumbled, shaking off her umbrella as she stalked up to the hospital’s emergency entrance. She gave the waiting room a quick once over and, not spotting Will anywhere, passed it to march straight up to the nurse’s station.

 

“Delilah Eleanor Bloom,” she stated briskly, ripping tissues out of the box on the counter to attempt to clean up her face. “She was brought in… probably about half an hour ago.”

 

The nurse stared at her a moment, gnashing her teeth on a wad of bubble gum, and let out a snort. “Well that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? And who are you, sweetie?” She asked in a saccharin tone, causing Alana to scowl.

 

“I’m her sister, damn it,” she spat, and the woman rolled her eyes. At that, Alana opened her mouth, a vicious string of curse words coating the tip of her tongue, when a large hand landed on her shoulder and she jerked away. “Don’t fucking touch –”

 

Her words died in the air as she came face to face with Dr. Lecter, who was wearing a look of deep disappointment just for her. “I understand you’re stressed, Alana, but there’s no need to be so vulgar,” he chided. She muttered an apology, which he seemed to ignore, and he turned to face the nurse with a pleasant smile.

 

“Good morning, Miss…” He leaned slightly over the countertop to peer at her name tag. “Miss Marilyn DeMarco,” he read slowly, “what a lovely name.”

 

Alana watched in disgust as the woman’s face became splotchy with what she assumed was a blush.

 

“Oh, thank you,” the nurse gushed, fiddling with her chewing gum with her index finger as she leaned toward him. “And who might you be?”

 

“My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he replied, straightening up and brushing a piece of lint off the coat he held folded over his arm. “I am this young woman's,” he continued, gesturing to Alana, “sister's psychiatrist, and we are both terribly worried about her. Would you be so kind as to tell us where she’s being held, Marilyn?”

 

“Oh sure, of course,” she replied, cramming her gum back into her mouth before clacking her absurdly long acrylic nails on her keyboard. She hummed tunelessly to herself as she scrolled through the database, and Alana had to grind her teeth to keep from shouting at her to hurry the fuck up.

 

“What’s taking so long?” Will asked, suddenly at her side.

 

“What the-” Alana blinked and turned to face him. “Where’ve you been?”

 

“Hurt my foot,” was all he offered in explanation, and she looked down to find both of his hospital issue slipper-clad feet were wrapped in bandages. “They finally let me go but they won’t let me see her… Let me ride in the damn ambulance but since I’m not a relative they keep dicking me around.”

 

“Patience is a virtue,” Dr. Lecter scolded, smiling at the nurse who let out a grotesquely girlish giggle.

 

“That it is,” the nurse murmured, shooting a nasty look to her and Will. “Aha! here we go. Bloom, room three-oh-one. Looks like she’s got a few nasty cuts and scrapes...” She suddenly stood up and leaned far over the counter, brazenly thrusting her chest towards Hannibal as she pointed to the waiting room. “You can sit in there and someone will come ‘round to get you when she’s ready for visitors.”

 

“Thank you, Marilyn DeMarco,” Hannibal replied curtly, turning on a dime and striding off to the waiting room.

 

“Let me know if you need anything, dear,” she called after him suggestively, “anything at all!” But he paid her no mind.

 

Will and Alana shared a heavy eye roll, then followed after the tall doctor.

 

“Did you call him?” She whispered, grabbing his sleeve and bringing them to a halt a few feet before the entrance to the room.

 

He scowled and yanked himself out of her grasp. “Does the word ‘duh’ mean anything to you?”

 

“Yeah,” she snapped, “it means you’re a fourteen year old girl. Get a grip, Will!”

 

“ _You_ get a grip!”

 

“Why did you call him?!”

 

“BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T ANSWER THE PHONE, ALANA.”

 

“Children?” Hannibal suddenly interjected, peeking out of the waiting room with both eyebrows raised. “Care to lower your voices? This is a hospital, not an amusement park.”

 

“Sorry,” they both grumbled, hanging their heads and shuffling into the waiting room to sit as far away from each other as possible.

 

Half an incredibly tense hour later, the door opened to reveal a young male doctor with a clipboard. “Is there a Doctor Hannibal Lecter here?” He called questioningly.

 

Three heads snapped up at once, two sets of eyes looking utterly confused while the last quirked a curious brow. “That would be me,” Hannibal replied, rising from his seat.

 

“A Miss Delilah Bloom is asking for you.”

 

“Now just wait a minute!” Alana snapped, storming past Hannibal to meet the doctor first. “I’m her sister--”

 

“Ah, you must be Alana. Yes, she’s mentioned you,” he muttered. “She asks that you be kept away for the time being.”

 

“But I’m her temporary legal guardian, you can’t keep me out! She isn’t fit to make her own d-”

 

“Do you have any documentation to prove that?” He cut her off exasperatedly.

 

“I-… Well, no, not with me.”

 

“Then I’m going to have to respect her wishes. She doesn’t want to see you.” He turned to Hannibal and gestured him through the door, then glanced back at Alana and sighed, apparently taking pity on her. “Look, she’ll be fine. She had one pretty gnarly cut that needed stitches, some scrapes on her arms, and a hell of a lot of splinters in her hands, but she’s alright otherwise.”

 

“But- But does she remember anything?” she asked, watching as Hannibal paused calmly at the threshold. “She’s not well. Sh-she has episodes and-”

 

“Ma’am, I honestly don’t know; when she came to she said she doesn’t know how she got here or what happened. She just keeps asking for this man,” he pointed his clipboard at Hannibal. “Saying he’s her doctor, and telling us not to let you or someone named Will Graham into her room.”

 

Upon hearing his name, Will shuffled over to Alana and frowned. “I don’t understand why…” he started, but Alana suddenly turned and swatted him hard on the arm.

 

“What did you do?!”

 

“Ow!”

 

“Children,” Hannibal warned again tiredly, and they both turned their glares on him, “enough.”

 

Clearing his throat, the younger doctor looked pointedly to Alana again. “Listen, just bring back some documentation and we’ll let you in, alright? By that time she’ll probably be ready to leave anyway. Her injuries were minor.”

 

“...Alright. Thank you.”

 

He nodded once, shot Will a suspicious glance, then turned and shut the door behind himself and Hannibal.

 

“ _I_ didn’t do anything,” Will hissed the second the door clicked shut, putting a world of emphasis on the ‘I.’

 

Alana’s lip curled. “Oh and what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

 

“It means you royally screwed up and no amount of apologizing is going to make a damn difference,” he replied viciously. “I can’t believe anyone granted you permission to be her legal guardian. There’s something seriously wrong with her-- something happened to that woman, and you can’t just dump her off on people she doesn’t know. Jesus, Alana, how stupid can you be? And you have the nerve to blame _me_ for this?”

 

Her stomach twisted in knots and she had to focus hard not to cry. “Will--”

 

“No. I-I know we still have to work together, but I don’t want to see you outside of Jack’s office again, for the conceivable future.”

 

He started to limp away and she reached out to grab his arm. “Please-... Please let me give you a ride home, at least?”

 

Will shook his head and jerked his sleeve away from her grip. “I’ll call a cab,” he grumbled, and she watched silently as he hobbled out of the waiting room.

 

* * *

 

 

_Reston Hospital Center,_

_Room 301_

 

 

“So you’re her psychiatrist?” The younger doctor asked as they came to a halt just outside Delilah’s room.

 

Hannibal nodded stiffly, his eyes fixed on the closed door. As he took in the gaudy teal paint job, he listened intently and caught the rush of running water coming from what he assumed to be the en suite bathroom within.

 

“For how long?”

 

“A grand total of two days,” he replied curtly. The water then shut off and he heard Delilah slowly shuffle back to her bed. He glanced over in time to see the doctor’s eyebrows jump up to his prematurely receding hairline and Hannibal canted his head. “Why do you ask?”

 

“It’s just, you were the first person she mentioned when she woke up. I expected you to say two years-- or months, even. Not two days.”

 

“Miss Bloom understands I have only her best interests in mind.”

 

“...Right,” he muttered, clearly confused. Stuffing the clipboard under his arm, he turned the handle and pushed the heavy door open. “Hey there, Delilah!” He called, and Hannibal heard the woman in question groan with annoyance.

 

“Like I haven’t heard that one before, Steve.”

 

Steve, evidently, chuckled warmly and grasped the curtain shielding her bed from view. “You decent?” He asked, giving the curtain a little shake. “Because youuuu have a visitor!”

 

Hannibal bit the inner corner of his mouth and shut his eyes to avoid noticeably rolling them. The man would clearly be much better suited to a pediatrician’s role.

 

Delilah huffed and threw the curtain aside, effectively ripping it out of the doctor’s grasp. “Nope, I’m buck na-” She stopped abruptly, and Hannibal opened his eyes to find her freshly washed face staring straight up at him.

 

“Good afternoon, Miss Bloom,” he said kindly, his lips quirking at the corners as a faint dusting of rose coloured her cheeks. _So sweet._

 

“H-hi, Dr. Lecter,” she stammered, absently picking at the dressings covering her palm. “Sorry… I was expecting Alana.”

 

“You asked for her not to be allowed in,” Steve replied matter-of-factly, setting his clipboard down and gently shooing her hand away from the bandages. “Knock that off.”

 

Delilah huffed and dropped her hands to her sides. “It itches,” she grumbled, clambering back up onto the bed. “Anyway, I didn’t actually think you’d heed my request.”

 

“Ask and you shall receive,” Hannibal interjected with a smirk. He pulled a chair up to her bedside and folded his coat over the back, then sat down and crossed his legs.

 

Steve nodded absently and peeked under her bandages, before scribbling notes on the clipboard and tucking it under his arm again. “Alrighty chica, I’ll put in a call for some ibuprofen but I think you’ll be all set to leave once your sister comes back with documentation.”

 

“But you just said-”

 

“She claims to be your legal guardian. I can’t let you leave by yourself if that’s the case.”

 

Leaning forward to brush her good hand with his fingertips, Hannibal caught her gaze and spoke sternly, “If you want people to treat you like an adult, you’re going to need to stop pouting like a child.”

 

“Wise words,” the doctor clipped, and both she and Hannibal shot him a glare. “Er… I’ll leave you to it, then. A nurse will be by with your prescription and discharge papers. You’ll have to wait for your sister to fill them out.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” she muttered, scowling after the man as he left and didn’t bother to close the door behind him.

 

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Hannibal stood and stalked over to the door with an irritated sigh, and snapped it shut.

 

“Shouldn’t I be under some kind of crazy watch?” He heard the woman ask softly, and he turned to observe her. She refused to make eye contact now, her head tilted in the opposite direction to stare at the curtain.

 

“You are not crazy,” he said firmly, and she scoffed.

 

Pursing his lips, he hesitated a moment before rounding the bed to crouch directly into her line of sight. “Look at me,” he commanded, and was quite pleased to see her gaze immediately snap to his face. She still avoided his eyes, choosing instead to stare at his mouth. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip and watched with thinly veiled amusement as her own plump, rouge tongue mirrored his. Reaching up, he touched the pads of his index and middle fingers under her chin and gave her a small nudge. “Delilah, please afford me the courtesy of eye contact when I speak to you.”

 

Again, she complied without argument.

 

“Much better,” he whispered, slipping his fingers away from her skin. “Now, will you tell me what happened with Will Graham?”

 

“Nothing happened,” she replied briskly, taking a deep breath in through her nose and holding it.

 

“I don’t take kindly to lying...”

 

Delilah frowned and exhaled with a loud huff. “I wouldn’t lie,” she assured him, sounding more than a little insulted. “I just… It’s not his fault.”

 

Hannibal straightened himself up at once and dusted off his slacks. “Whether it is his fault or not is not what I asked,” he replied tersely. “I asked what happened.”

 

“I had a freak out and took off,” she offered flippantly. “It happens.”

 

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he paced back around to the other side of the bed. “And what triggered this ‘freak out’?”

 

When thinking back on his telephone conversation with Will, he realized the man hadn’t given much information. He’d only said she had had some kind of episode, and that Alana wasn’t answering her phone. He'd actually found himself mildly concerned about the girl, and had taken off without demanding answers.

 

‘ _She mentioned you, so I assume she knows you… I just- I don’t know what to do,_ ’ Will had admitted, and he’d sounded absolutely terrified.

 

Delilah shrugged and glanced down at her hands before pointedly making eye contact again as she spoke. “I honestly have no idea. Last thing I remember, I was washing dishes after breakfast and… And I can’t recall anything after that.”

 

Sated in his assessment that she appeared to be telling the truth, and given the fact that he had no basis to really question her, he made himself comfortable in the chair again and said quietly, “Dissociative episodes are quite common after a traumatic event, Delilah.”

 

“But I can't recall any trauma--”

 

“Yet.”

 

That caused her to snap her mouth shut and Hannibal continued. “If I were required to give you a diagnosis, right this instant -- even without having born witness to one of your ‘freak outs’ -- I would only entertain the possibility of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, with some form of dissociation being a byproduct of the larger picture. Whatever that may entail.

 

“I believe your former Doctor Marlene’s attempt at hypnotherapy was, while perhaps not well-executed, a step in the right direction,” he went on sensibly. “This does not appear to be bipolar disorder and you are absolutely not schizophrenic-- I trust you’ve stopped taking the quetiapine?”

 

“Yes, of course,” she replied indignantly, and he smirked in return.

 

“Good. Are you still taking the Zoloft?”

 

“I took it last night… should I not have?”

 

Hannibal shook his head. “No, that’s perfect. I think I would like to increase your dosage, as well.”

 

“Yes, alright…” She picked at the bandage on her palm again before leaning heavily against the mountain of pillows behind her. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she mumbled thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling. Delilah suddenly settled down into the bed and rolled over to face him. “What can you do for that?”

 

“The Zoloft will help you feel calm and allow you to better focus on the day-to-day; regular therapy, to figure out the origin of your… situation,” he chose the word carefully, “will be the most useful in lessening the prevalence of your episodes.”

 

“Okay,” she muttered, biting back a yawn. “We still haven’t discussed frequency.”

 

“Well, how often do you think you should see me?”

 

“...Once a week?” She offered tentatively.

 

Resting his head on his hand, he began tracing his bottom lip with his fingertip as he studied her. “How do Friday afternoons sound?”

 

Another yawn forced its way past her lips this time and he watched her jaw quiver around it as she nodded. “I would like that,” she whispered sleepily. Her eyelids fluttered shut and her body suddenly jerked in an effort to keep herself awake.

 

“As would I…” Hannibal replied, allowing himself a genuine smile as he leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice to a rumble. “Rest now, _bellissima_.”

 

“Mmh,” she hummed in her half-awake daze, her eyes struggling to focus on him. “What’d you call me?”

 

He merely smiled and reached out to brush his knuckles against her still slightly flushed cheek. “Sleep.”

 

As Delilah’s soft snores filled the room, Hannibal let his hand drop from her face and he leaned back in his seat to process. If he was being honest with himself, he shouldn’t really be here. He was getting too wrapped up in this woman already, his professional interest rapidly twisting into a personal obsession.

 

‘ _Curiosity killed the cat, you know._ ’

 

The highly overused phrase danced across his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside. While that may very well be the case, Hannibal Lecter was a touch more formidable than a common feline.

 

Standing abruptly, he snatched his coat from the chair and shook it out before pulling it on and buttoning it up as he made his way to the door. Smoothing his lapels, he paused mid-stride and his feet carried him back to Delilah’s bedside. He bent over and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her golden curls; shutting his eyes as he pushed past the sterile bite of the hospital room, past the pine and earth from her romp in the woods, he finally found that delicious aroma of ripe plum and spice once more. Saliva flooded his tongue and he had to swallow it down before pressing his lips to her temple.

 

A knock sounded at the door, and he straightened himself up at once, turning to watch passively as a familiarly squat woman meandered into the room. “Ah, Miss DeMarco,” he greeted courteously.

 

“Ooh, well if it isn’t the handsome doctor again!” She squealed in delight as she looked up from the paperwork in her hands, and his jaw clenched to avoid scowling. “We gotta stop meetin’ like this, sugar.”

 

Hannibal forced a laugh and brought a finger to his lips. “Please keep your voice down; my patient is taking a much needed rest.”

 

“Oh, sorry,” she half-whispered, her voice still much too loud for Hannibal’s liking, as she ducked around him to check on the sleeping woman. “We all look like angels when we’re asleep, don’t we?” she mused. “Even the Devil himself.”

 

“Who says the Devil is a man?”

 

The nurse let out a boisterous laugh that caused Delilah to stir and his eyes narrowed as she replied simply, “The Bible, honey.”

 

“Perhaps the Bible shouldn’t be taken so literally,” he murmured, but he could tell she wasn’t listening anymore; he was yet again ready to take his leave when he heard her click her tongue in disdain.

 

“What a shame,” she muttered to herself, “the prettiest girls are always the stupidest.”

 

“...I beg your pardon?”

 

“Hm?” She glanced up from Delilah’s discharge papers and gave the room a conspiratorial once over before shuffling nearer. “Well, I’m not supposed to say anything, but… seein’ as you’re her, what, therapist?”

 

“Psychiatrist,” he corrected.

 

“Right, well, I overheard that lumberjack boy telling the doctor about what happened…” The nurse heaved a dramatic sigh and hugged the folder to her chest, as she looked to Delilah with pity. “Sounds to me like the poor dear is on PCP.”

 

Hannibal’s lips parted, his jaw slacked as he was caught in a rare moment of being completely at a loss for words. While he could see the connection, and had briefly entertained the idea himself -- Dissociative episodes complete with erratic behavior would cause anyone to suggest first ruling out PCP -- he found he was deeply irritated with the woman’s presumptuousness.

 

“She is not abusing any illicit drugs, Miss DeMarco,” he finally replied, keeping his voice even. “Miss Bloom has been drug tested within the past thirty days,” he added before she could argue. “I would advise you not to so flagrantly place judgment on your patients; they need your kindness, not your misplaced and ill-informed slander.”

 

She was quite efficiently stunned into silence and Hannibal offered her a self-indulgently sardonic grin. “Until we meet again, Miss DeMarco.”

 

As he made his way out of the room, he caught sight of Alana bustling down the hall, some paperwork and a change of clothes for her sister bunched in her arms. “Hey,” she mumbled, slowing awkwardly as they met near the door.

 

Hannibal paused, having the overwhelming urge to scold her, but he stamped it down. “Miss Bloom is resting,” he informed her calmly. “As it appears she has had a trying day, I would suggest letting her be until she wakes on her own.”

 

“Of course,” Alana whispered, finding her wrist to rub at her nose. It was unsurprisingly raw from excessive crying. “Listen, could you... Could you please talk to Will? If Delilah didn't want him around I'm assuming he said something or--”

 

Hannibal's eyes widened. “Are you suggesting he caused this?”

 

“Well, I-I...” she floundered, looking around for something to focus on to avoid eye contact.

 

“Alana, you've made a mistake. It is time to own up to it, and make amends as best you can. There's no need to drag Will under the bus and tarnish his character for your folly. I dare say he has enough to worry about without you putting this on him, too.”

_Well, so much for avoiding scolding her._

“I don't mean he did anything! I'm not saying that! I just... Maybe he said something that set her off?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Hannibal shrugged and folded his hands in front of himself. “Perhaps he did. Would that make this situation any more his fault than if he hadn't?”

 

“No,” she grumbled. “I shouldn't have left her there. B-But I couldn't very well take her to see Abigail!”

 

“And therein lies your problem, Alana. You've taken it upon yourself to be your sister's nursemaid, but you haven't the time nor the inclination to be what you think she needs. Frankly, I think she's stronger than you give her credit for.”

 

“I couldn't leave her alone!”

 

“What do you do any other time you have to work, or take a sudden leap at Jack Crawford's insistence?”

 

“Up until a month ago, she was working at a coffee shop and taking classes at Arthur Murray. Our schedules lined up pretty well and things were fine.”

 

“Arthur Murray? The dance studio?”

 

Alana nodded. “She was doing really well until something happened with her instructor and she slammed his face into the mirror wall... a lot.

 

“She tells me she has no memory of what happened, but the man was a bloody pulp when she was through. Since then she hasn't looked for a new studio. Still works at the coffee shop, but only some weekday mornings, and full days on the weekend.”

 

“I see,” he muttered, filing each detail away for later as he glanced down at his watch. “Well, forgive me Alana but I have an appointment. Delilah and I have settled on Friday afternoons for her sessions. I think three-thirty will do nicely.”

 

“Alright, thank you-- a-and, thank you for coming when Will called. Y-you didn't have to do that.”

 

“I know I didn't. I wanted to make sure Miss Bloom was alright.”

 

“You're a good man, Hannibal.”

 

Hannibal smiled and inclined his head. “I do what I can.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy. So, this website keeps fucking up my formatting. I'm still figuring things out on here, so I apologize if anything looks wonky. I'll be fixing issues as I catch them.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_ **Chapter 4** _

 

 

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s Office,_

_687 Bayshore Ave, Suite 200, Baltimore, MD_

_Monday – 8:33 AM_

 

 

About half an hour before his office would be open for the day, Hannibal was having a casual sit-and-think in his car, parked in the lot in his usual space. The past weekend had been eventful, to say the least. Under Jack Crawford's rather dubious insistence, he and Alana and Will had taken Abigail Hobbs back home, to Minnesota.

 

_'And you be the man on the phone...'_

 

He smirked to himself at the memory. At the time, however, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, he thought he may well be sick. It had been too perfect a coincidence, and for a moment he'd thought himself caught – right in front of two FBI darlings, no less. The moment had passed blessedly swiftly, though.

 

When Abigail had later killed Nicholas Boyle, Hannibal had been pleased to note the child had done a decent job of it. There was something to be said for successfully passing your talents on to your offspring – at least the late Garrett Jacob Hobbs had managed to do something right by his daughter. Convincing the girl that no one would believe it had been in self-defense had been as easy as he'd expected. The poor thing was nothing more than a lump of clay for him to sculpt as he saw fit.

 

In the end, his vow to keep her murderous little secret had always been a given. The very moment he'd made the choice to save her from death at her father's hands, weeks ago, he had resolved that she would amount to something more than a mere stain on a kitchen floor – or just another body in a mental institution. What more, precisely, he wasn't yet entirely sure. What he did know was that Abigail did not deserve to pay for her father's crimes, as Jack Crawford so insisted, no matter how much of a hand she'd truly had in them.

 

_So many little secrets._

 

As Hannibal glanced over to his wrist to check the time, he caught a flurry of blonde locks fleeing across the street and into the parking lot, with a silver car whipping into the lot close behind. His eyes followed what he recognized at once as Alana's hybrid, and watched curiously as she haphazardly parked partially on the walkway and threw herself out of the vehicle. Hannibal sighed and tapped his hands on the steering wheel, deliberating as Alana scrambled up to the glass doors just as they slammed shut behind Delilah. She very nearly ran straight into them, stopping herself just in time and wrenching one open just as Hannibal exited his vehicle and quickly strode along the sidewalk after her.

 

“Damn it, Delilah!” he heard Alana shriek, and he paused at the entrance before switching his gait to follow them up the stairs in silence.

 

“I don't want to talk to you,” Delilah hissed back, and he was pleased that she was making a point to keep her voice down. His office wasn't the only one in the building, and others were already conducting business at this hour.

 

“You're being really childish right now, you know that?”

 

“I'm a goddamn adult, Alana, and I want to speak to my psychiatrist.”

 

“Then you make an appointment like an adult! Don't think you can just come running here to bother Dr. Lecter whenever I do something you don't like.”

 

Hannibal leaned against the railing just before the entrance to the waiting area and massaged his forehead. All the bickering around him was starting to grate on his nerves.

 

“Well, maybe he wouldn't mind seeing me,” Delilah replied softly.

 

Biting back a smirk, Hannibal let his footfalls be heard as he took the last few steps up and set foot on the landing. Both women were turned to face him already, and his eyes fell to Delilah first. She was clearly pleased to see him, and he could admit to himself that it had been three days too long since he'd last seen her face, as well.

 

Striding wordlessly to the center of the room, he quirked a brow and gave them both a brief, but thorough, once-over. Alana was an unmitigated disaster, with her usually well-maintained brunette waves carelessly lumped in a mass on top of her head; her poor excuse for an outfit, a pair of disturbingly tacky, flower-print leggings, with an oversize sweater that had clearly seen better days; on her feet were a pair of cheap running shoes, the laces completely untied.

 

Delilah Bloom was looking quite polished, in comparison. Simple black pumps adorned her feet, with her legs painted in a satin sheen from her stockings; a modest black skirt hugged her hips; and a crisp, white, boat-neck blouse flowed over her upper half, exposing her clavicle and the crests of her shoulders. He eyed the pale yellow apron slung over her arm beside her purse with mild curiosity. Evidently she had chosen to pay him a visit before work.

 

“I am going to ask for an explanation,” he finally said, giving Alana a pointed look. “But first I must insist that you refrain from shouting.”

 

As anticipated, Alana's face crumpled with embarrassment and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

 

Delilah's upper lip curled in distaste, and she rolled her eyes before looking to Hannibal. “I apologize for being intrusive, Dr. Lecter, but I-... I just needed to talk to someone I –”

 

“Trust?” He offered quietly.

 

“You can trust me!” Alana exploded, throwing her arms in the air. “Jesus, Delilah, why are you always so dramatic?”

 

“She hired a nanny!” The younger sister finally explained, her voice creeping up an octave before she forced herself to lower it again. “Oh, I can't believe this. I am twenty-seven years old.”

 

“She's not a nanny, she is a _nurse_! I'm just trying to help you, damn it!”

 

“Well, I didn't ask for your mollycoddling!”

 

“Don't you remember your little adventure in the woods?” She snapped, grabbing Delilah's arm to shake her bandaged hand in her face.

 

“Ow, let go you bi–”

 

“Or what about your hospital stay, huh? Do you at least remember that?”

 

“Alana, that's quite enough,” Hannibal interjected, giving her a stern glare. When she simply continued to glower at her little sister, he took two wide steps forward and forced himself between them, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. “Let her go. Now.”

 

Alana released her sister's arm and staggered back a few steps, out of his own grip. “Hannibal, she's being ridiculous!”

 

“You're bordering on hysterics, Alana, and it's very unbecoming.”

 

Her eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to retort, but evidently thought better of it and her lips snapped shut.

 

Taking a deep breath, he brushed past Delilah and swiftly unlocked his office. “Miss Bloom, if you would kindly give us a moment,” he said quietly, gesturing her inside. She nodded once and shot her sister a glare before slipping past him, and he gently shut the door.

 

Sliding his keys back into his coat pocket, he slowly turned back to his colleague. “A nurse? Really?”

 

Alana groaned and rubbed at her face. “I just – You were right. I'm trying to be too much for her. I-I can't juggle everything. She's my sister and I love her but I can't be everything she needs –“

 

“Everything you _think_ she needs,” he corrected firmly. “Alana, your love and concern for your sister is truly commendable, but I think it would be best if you took a step back and reevaluated your approach.

 

“You have an entire china cabinet's worth of plates in the air. If you continue like this, one of them is bound to slip between your fingers and I think we both know you absolutely cannot afford a single one to break.”

 

She stared at him for a long moment before her eyes narrowed. “Are you seriously kicking me out again?”

 

Hannibal sighed exasperatedly and stuffed his twitching hands into his pockets. “That's all you've taken from what I've said to you?”

 

“No, I – I just –” She floundered, before letting out a huff and crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, I understand what you're saying,” she replied levelly. “I do. And I will... take it into consideration. ”

 

“Then consider this as well, Alana – this is the second time your temper has forced me to ask you to leave,” he chastised quietly. “Perhaps it would be prudent for you to look into therapy yourself.”

 

A wounded look flashed across her face, but it was quickly replaced with a glare. “Fine, Dr. Lecter,” she muttered, sniffing lightly as she shook her head and paced away from him, turning to make her way back down the stairs. “Just... fine.”

 

Hannibal stared after her for several long moments, taking deep, meditative breaths to quell his own rising temper. The woman was teetering precariously close to his last nerve.

 

When he had finally collected himself, he gently pushed the door open to find Delilah sitting in the center of the antique teal settee directly across from him, her chin resting on her shoulder as she studied the Japanese artwork on display behind her.

 

“Would you like some tea?” he inquired, leaving the door open as he crossed the room to meet her.

 

“Yes, please,” she replied, polite as ever, but still she didn't turn to face him and he frowned.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I'm fine,” she assured him, lifting her bandaged hand and wiggling her fingers. “She didn't pop any stitches.”

 

“Good,” he murmured, pausing before her and glancing up to admire the pictures as well.

 

After another moment of silent observation, she finally turned and smiled up at him. “I think I've fallen in love with this couch,” she announced, running her hand along the lush velvet cushion as if she were stroking a cat.

 

Hannibal smirked and leaned forward, as if he were about to divulge some important secret. “You have exceptional taste, Miss Bloom.”

 

Heat coloured her cheeks as she scooted over to give him room, and he took her unspoken offer to sit at her side. She folded her sunny yellow apron across her lap and he peered down at the café name embroidered on the cotton. “Paradise Café,” he read aloud, glancing up at her questioningly.

 

“Mhm,” she hummed, absently tracing the black stitching. “It's over on Olive street. I've worked there for the past... what, three years? Give or take.”

 

“That's quite a while. You must enjoy it, then.”

 

She shrugged. “It's close to my apartment – or, was, rather,” she corrected, a hint of irritation in her tone. “Just a quick, five minute walk from there. I miss my little apartment...”

 

Delilah sighed, setting her apron on the cushion and dropping her purse on top of it. She rose from the settee and his gaze followed as she wandered past him, toward the ladder that led up to the stacks.

 

“And now?”

 

“Now, it's about... oh, twenty minutes from Alana's place. But it's alright; I enjoy walks. And the owner is remarkably understanding of my... issues.”

 

He watched Delilah take a wide step up onto the second rung, and he was on his feet at once, sensing a potential catastrophe. Sure enough, muscle memory had led her to grab hold of he ladder with her wounded right hand, and she instinctively jerked backward – but Hannibal was already waiting behind her, his large hands deftly catching her around the waist and stopping her from tumbling to the floor.

 

“I would consider it a personal favor if you would take some effort to be more mindful of your surroundings,” he whispered into her ear, feeling her shudder as her head tilted slightly.

 

Wetting his bottom lip, his fingers flexed against her sides as he stared down at the dip between her neck and shoulder for far longer than was really necessary – convincing himself that he was only making absolutely certain she was steady – before reluctantly removing his hands from her and taking a half-step back.

 

“I'll be more careful,” she muttered, slowly turning around to lean back against the ladder. “I promise.”

 

“Promises are weighty things, Miss Bloom; don't offer them so easily.”

 

”I mean what I say,” Delilah replied firmly, and he lifted his palms in playful surrender as she added, much more quietly, “to you.”

 

Hannibal sucked in a breath and exhaled with a soft huff as he dropped his arms to his sides, and began to backtrack literally toward the settee. “I don't have an appointment until ten-thirty,” he announced as he retrieved her things. “Would you do me the honor of driving you to work?”

 

“How do you do that?” She asked, pushing away from the ladder and striding over to take her purse and apron from him.

 

He blinked and canted his head, honestly puzzled. “Do what, Miss Bloom?”

 

“Even when you phrase things as a question, I feel as though I have no option but to oblige... or rather, _accommodate_ you.”

 

Hannibal smirked at her use of his own terminology from their first meeting, pleased she had such a vivid memory even after a recent episode. Though he couldn't say what pleased him more: his ego being so blatantly stroked, or the fact that an intact memory confirmed his working theory that these Dissociative events of hers were quite extremely localized. Deducing her triggers would be the key to solving her puzzle...

 

He made a mental note to actually have that conversation with Will Graham, as Alana had requested.

 

“As I've told you before,” he replied, resting his hand on her lower back and guiding her to the door, “you always have a choice.”

 

“Then I find myself choosing to accommodate you,” she said simply, offering a brilliant smile that he couldn't help but return in kind.

 

Once they were settled in the car, Hannibal kept a steady sidelong eye on her as he proceeded into traffic. She was viciously gnawing on her bottom lip, a torrent of words obviously begging to be spilt from her tongue.

 

“If you chew through your lip, I'll be forced to forward you the cleaning bill,” he teased, pausing at a red light and peering down at her. That flush he so enjoyed blossomed across her cheeks as she immediately released her lip, and he impulsively reached out to brush his knuckle against the now swollen flesh.

 

Delilah let out a puff of laughter and touched her fingertips to where his knuckle had been. “I- I just wanted to apologize again, for being a nuisance,” she finally explained in a rush, “I've been dealing with that horrid woman all weekend and Alana won't _listen_ to me.”

 

“Horrid woman? The nurse?”

 

“Yes, the _nurse_ ,” she spat with venom on her tongue. “Alana only has a two bedroom apartment with a 'den' that's more like a glorified closet, and she seems to think it's enough room for all three of us – newsflash, it's not. This woman creeps into my bedroom at all hours of the night, shining her damned little penlight in my face; she even follows me to the bathroom, for goodness' sake; and, just yesterday, I went to slice an apple and she ripped the knife from my hands to cut the damn thing up for me, like-... like I'm an incompetent toddler! She thinks I'm going to suddenly snap and take a blade to my wrists –“

 

“Will you?”

 

“– or to her.”

 

Her forehead scrunched in umbrage. “Of course not.”

 

“To which one?”

 

“What?”

 

Hannibal cleared his throat and pointedly focused on the road as he asked quietly, “To which option are you so indignant at the prospect? Slitting your wrists, or stabbing the nanny?”

 

The question hung in the air between them for another several kilometers before Delilah finally replied, her voice hardly above a whisper. "Slitting my wrists," she said, and Hannibal turned away, under the guise of checking his blind spot, to hide his amusement.

 

“Did you really have to think on it for so long?”

 

“Yes... and no.”

 

“Though this is not a session, I promise you anything said will be kept between us.”

 

“Promises are weighty things,” she recited cheekily.

 

“And make no mistake, I bear them quite selectively,” he informed her seriously, pulling up to the café and killing the ignition.

 

She suddenly laughed, catching him by surprise, and he turned in his seat to face her; pressing his nearest hand upon the back of her seat, he rested his other forearm on the steering wheel and lifted his brow in interest. “Something amusing, Miss Bloom?”

 

“That poem popped into my head just now...” she murmured distractedly. “Oh, I can only ever remember the second half, but...” She chewed her inner lip a moment before drawing a leg under herself to twist her body to face his, then shut her eyes and recalled softly:

 

“He gives his harness bells a shake, and asks if there is some mistake –“

 

“The only other sound's the sweep, “ he cut in, recognizing the oft-quoted poem at once and watching her with rapt attention. “Of easy wind and downy flake.”

 

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep –“

 

“But I have promises to keep...”

 

“And miles to go before I sleep.”

 

“And miles to go before I sleep,” he repeated, as he watched her eyelids flutter open.

 

“You know, some claim that poem was about Frost contemplating suicide.”

 

“Some may be right,” he nodded thoughtfully, tracing the edge of the steering wheel with his fingertips. “Decades of poverty and familial tragedy may well push anyone to their breaking point.”

 

Delilah hummed in agreement and looked out the window pensively. “I think it's beautiful, in a somber sort of way; he ends on a high note, at least. If it really is about suicide, then the woods were obviously his end. Yet, he knew he still had responsibilities and chose not to take the easy way out.”

 

“I am inclined to agree with you, but we must remember that literature is always open to interpretation. It could be utterly meaningless, and we'd have no idea. Only Mr. Frost knows the true meaning.”

 

“Mr. Frost is probably cackling in his grave, then, listening to thousands of silly people like us ponder its supposed deep significance.”

 

They shared a chuckle before both fell silent to stare out at the café.

 

“That's Maggie, the owner,” Delilah explained, thrusting her chin toward the cheery-looking older woman clearly visible through the windowfront. “She's very kind.”

 

“She seems it,” he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.

 

“She... she's offered for me to live upstairs, in the space above the café, to get away from Alana and her Mary Poppins from Hell.” Delilah heaved a sigh as she looked back to him dejectedly. “All of my things are already being stored up there. Things that didn't fit in Alana's place... which is most of my things, really. I wish I could take her up on her offer.”

 

“And why can't you?”

 

“Alana would never allow –“

 

“Delilah, you must have signed the paper placing her as your keeper.”

 

“I did,” she affirmed, her brow twisting with confusion. “So?”

 

“ _So_... you have a steady psychiatrist now, do you not?” The question was rhetorical and he didn't give her a chance to respond. “Your medication has been altered and will likely be more effective – at the very least, not so damaging to your physical health... All I need do is draw up a bit of my own paperwork, have the pair of us sign it, then tackle the admittedly dodgy task of having your sister sign as well, and – “

 

“Wait, what?” She interrupted, mouth agape.

 

“ _And,_ ” he continued, mildly tersely, “you will be your own woman again. No more... Mary Poppins.”

 

“You would do that?”

 

“Alana has made it quite clear she is not acting with your best interest in mind, and her own mental stability leaves something to be desired,” he explained carefully. “I would go so far as to say she is entirely to blame for what happened last week.”

 

Tears welled in her eyes as he watched with fascination. She was practically vibrating with a sudden, unspoken need, her arms twitching upward and falling back down abruptly. Reaching out, he gently pushed a curl behind her ear and pointedly held his arms open when she moved again, and this time she crashed herself into his chest.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered ardently into his neck, her good hand grasping a fistful of his jacket to pull herself nearer, while her bandaged hand rested palm up against his hip.

 

Hannibal folded his arms around her and smoothed her wild curls down, away from his mouth and nose. “Understand that this will not happen immediately,” he apprised gently, “and I cannot guarantee Alana will sign, but I will do my best to persuade her.”

 

The girl sniffed quietly and nodded against his lapel, slowly releasing her grip on his clothing. She stayed pressed against him, however, and Hannibal couldn't be troubled to find any particular reason to let her go. Still stroking her hair, he wrapped his other arm tighter around her, and began rubbing small circles against her lower back. Delilah let out a gentle, humming sigh of contentment, a delicious sound that was as indulgent to his ears as Chopin's _Nocturnes_ \- Op. 9: No. 2 in E-Flat Major, to be precise. It was comforting, easy to listen to and, admittedly, a bit saccharine. He thought he should like to hear a symphony's worth of sounds such as these spilling from her pillowy lips.

 

“We never did have tea,” she muttered suddenly, unwittingly tugging him from his reverie.

 

“So we didn't,” Hannibal agreed. “What's to be done about that?”

 

Delilah hummed thoughtfully as she tilted her head back to look up at him, their faces mere inches apart. “I suppose you'll have to have some ready for me on Friday. It's only fair.”

 

A puff of laughter escaped his nose and he leaned back slightly to create more space between them. “So it is. I'll be sure a wide variety of teas await you at my office, then, come the end of this week.”

 

It was Delilah's turn to laugh as she reluctantly disentangled herself from his arms and held out her good hand for him to shake. “Until Friday, then, Dr. Lecter.”

 

Taking her slender hand in his, he gave her fingers a squeeze and held her gaze as he murmured, “Until Friday.”

 

Deliciously crimson cheeks and a nod were all she could offer before she exited the car and carefully shut the door. She tossed him one last smile of gratitude over her shoulder before bustling up to the café, and he stayed put a minute longer to make sure she arrived safely inside. Only when the door shut behind her and she was busy tying on her apron, did he finally turn the key in the ignition and drive away.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s Office,_

_Thursday – 6:33 PM_

 

 

William Graham was meant to be Hannibal's six o'clock that afternoon, his last appointment of the day, and after a good half hour of waiting not-so-patiently in his dimly lit office, it was quite clear the man would not be showing up. He tapped his fountain pen against his schedule, nearly piercing through the paper in his annoyance, then scratched a harsh line through ' _W. Graham_ ' and snapped the journal shut before sliding it across the desk and out of his immediate line of sight. Annoyed didn't begin to describe his mood in that moment, displeased as he was at his time being so carelessly wasted.

 

Dragging his teeth over his bottom lip, he tugged open the bottom desk drawer and retrieved a leather-bound journal. He quickly began to flip through it, past countless pages of completed sketches – most of various architecture he had admired, or well-known pieces of art he'd thought to recreate himself – and landed on his most recent entry. Intensely expressive eyes and the beginnings of a soft, heart-shaped face greeted him, and he took up the scalpel at once to meticulously sharpen his pencil before setting to work.

 

The end result of another twenty minutes' worth of time left him with a remarkably detailed and arguably sultry portrait of Delilah Bloom in the passenger seat of his Bentley, with a halo of loose, lightly-sketched curls framing her face and the meat of her lower lip sandwiched firmly between her teeth. The tip of his pencil hovered over his creation a moment as he deliberated, before he began deepening shadows in certain places around her mouth, and lightening them in others; he finished off by adding a small pool of blood spilling from the freshly drawn, self-inflicted bite wound she now had, which cascaded over her plump bottom lip and trickled down her chin.

 

Quite pleased with himself, Hannibal smirked as he slowly added his signature to the bottom right corner, then flipped the journal shut. Placing it back in its proper place in the drawer, he pushed all the pencil shavings into the wastebasket and checked the time. It was nearly seven now and he let out an irritated sigh before switching off the desk light and stalking across the room to gather his coat.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Will Graham's Residence,_

_346 Leigh Mill Rd, Wolf Trap, VA_

– _7:45 PM_

 

Traffic had been pleasantly light, and it took less time than anticipated for Hannibal to arrive at the steps of Will Graham's quaint little farmhouse. A flurry of scuffles and barking greeted his rap at the door, and he listened to the man grouchily silencing his brood before the door creaked open. He looked utterly exhausted, with heavy bags under his eyes and a slightly sallow complexion, and Hannibal's eyebrows raised in interest.

 

“I generally require twenty-four hours' notice for cancellations,” Hannibal informed him pointedly, watching as all but one of the dogs shuffled back to their resting places in the living room.

 

Will leaned heavily against the door and blinked in confusion. “I – oh, shit,” he grumbled, digging his fingers into his eyes and rubbing them harshly. “Sorry, I completely forgot.”

 

Pursing his lips, Hannibal shrugged and folded his hands in front of himself. “I suppose it's fortuitous you aren't technically a patient – my cancellation fee is admittedly steep.”

 

Letting out a puff of halfhearted laughter, Will nudged the remaining shepherd mix mutt out of the way and made space for him to enter the house.

 

“I don't... really have much to offer in the way of beverages... or anything,” he informed him as they wandered to the kitchen. “Haven't really had a chance to go shopping.”

 

Hannibal stood in the entrance as he watched Will rest his elbows on the counter and vigorously rub his face. “Forgive me for being blunt, but you look like death warmed over.”

 

“Yeah, well, when you spend every day looking at death you're bound to adopt a few traits.”

 

“You have a singularly perilous habit of borrowing trouble, Will.”

 

The man shrugged heavily and scratched at his head. “It's been a rough couple of weeks.”

 

He peered down at the mess still scattered about the kitchen floor from what he assumed was Delilah's outburst and nodded. “So I see.”

 

Will followed his gaze and shook his head adamantly. “No, this has nothing to do with that.”

 

“Then I think these things should be picked up, don't you? A messy home will only exacerbate your stress.” With that he rounded the counter and set to work plucking various kitchen utensils from the floor and placing them in the sink.

 

“I cleaned up all the broken stuff,” he mumbled defensively, yawning loudly as he moved to assist.

 

“You seem awfully tired,” Hannibal observed, setting an offensively dull knife onto the counter and making a mental note to show him how to sharpen it sometime. “It's barely eight.”

 

“When your sleeping hours are spent doing actual rather than imagined cardio, it's kind of difficult to get much rest.”

 

He paused at that and turned to watch Will start on washing the dishes. “You've been sleepwalking?” He inquired curiously, and the younger male simply nodded. “For how long?”

 

“Just the once, as far as I know, last night,” he replied, chucking a handful of still partially soapy forks into the draining rack. “Cops found me taking a midnight stroll in the middle of the road about three miles north, with Winston. Guess he followed to make sure I was okay.”

 

They both turned to the canine in question, who was sitting at attention in the corner and keeping a watchful eye on his owner. “Good dog,” Hannibal muttered, mildly impressed.

 

When the kitchen no longer looked like a tornado had ravaged it, the pair ventured to the living room and Winston followed on Will's heel, curling up beside his feet as he flopped down into the armchair. “Did you really come all the way out here to ask why I missed therapy today?”

 

Hannibal rested his chin on his palm and shook his head slowly. “Not entirely.”

 

With a knowing grimace, Will fidgeted in his seat and sighed heavily. “Yeah, I figured. You want to know what happened with Delilah – I didn't... _do_ anything to her, if that's what you think.”

 

“No one thinks you harmed her, Will. Be serious.”

 

“Alana does.”

 

The doctor rolled his eyes and adjusted his cuff links. “Alana doesn't think you physically assaulted her sister. I'm fairly certain she would have ripped your throat out, had the idea so much as crossed her mind. She's proven herself to be incredibly impulsive, where her sister is concerned.”

 

Will groaned dejectedly and leaned his head back against his seat, staring up at the ceiling. “Before she took off, we were just talking. That's it,” he explained, frustration colouring his tone. “I really didn't think it would be such a big deal, but I just... I just wasn't thinking... She looks nothing like Alana, and I guess it just didn't occur to me in the moment –”

 

“What is it that slipped your mind?”

 

“I-... I mean, we'd talked about the Hobbs case earlier and- and I just wasn't thinking – ”

 

“ _Will,_ ” Hannibal spoke his name firmly, attempting to pull him from his self-induced fit of anxiety.

 

“I stupidly brought up Travis Bloom's murder,” he finally mumbled shamefully, crumpling forward to bury his face in his hands.

 

Hannibal chewed on the inside of his lip as he stared at Will for a long moment. “Do you often make a habit of discussing FBI cases with people you hardly know?”

 

“No!” He snapped, sitting up straight and rubbing his palms on the arms of the chair. “No, it just... She'd asked about Abigail, and the conversation about Hobbs didn't seem to bother her. I just got uncomfortable and spouted the first thing that came to mind... Everything I said was part of public record, so it's not like I did anything wrong. I still don't think the Chesapeake Ripper killed him,” he added as an aside, as if Hannibal actually needed to be convinced.

 

Smoothing his fingers over his lips, he twisted his wrist to check the time and rose from the couch. “It's getting late,” he announced, straightening out his coat. “I suggest you try to get some sleep. If the somnambulism persists I expect to hear about it.”

 

“Y-yeah, of course,” Will muttered, standing as well and scratching at his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around himself. “I... I feel like an ass for putting everything on Alana. She's not the only one who screwed up here.”

 

“I cannot say I disagree,” he replied honestly. “But you can't keep yourself wrapped up in guilt. It won't do anybody any good.”

 

Hannibal turned to leave just as Will asked tentatively, “D-Do you think she'll forgive me?”

 

He glanced back over his shoulder and shrugged. “I suppose only time will tell,” he offered lightly. “Good night, William.”

 

“Yeah. Good night...”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Alana and Delilah Bloom’s Residence,_

_103 W. Cross St, #44, Baltimore, MD_

_Friday – 7:13 AM_

 

 

 

When Alana heard a knock at the door, the last person she expected to find standing there was Hannibal Lecter. Yet there he was, asking to be permitted entrance. She stepped aside, hastily stuffing the hem of her shirt into her waistband; she'd been in the middle of getting ready to leave for work. “Delilah isn't here,” she heard herself mutter bitterly, and heat rushed to her cheeks as she snapped the door shut.

 

“I know,” he replied simply, turning to quirk a brow at her.

 

“She had to go to the café early today. Something about someone calling in sick.”

 

Hannibal pursed his lips, evidently irritated. “I thought I've made it clear I'm not here to see your sister.”

 

“Then what –“

 

“I spoke with Will Graham last night. I don't often make a habit of discussing my patients, even with their relatives, but I thought you would like to know.”

 

“Oh... Is that so?” She muttered airily, trying not to seem too interested as she pulled on her blazer and moved to step into her sensible pumps. “What... What did he say?”

 

Hannibal paced across the room, observing her modest apartment with polite interest. “Not much. He is not doing well, Alana,” he replied quietly, leaning forward to take a closer look at the various family photos on the wall behind the couch. “Whatever happened between he and your sister seems to have taken quite a toll on his mental faculties – which, as we both know, were already questionable at best.”

 

Stomach twisting uncomfortably, Alana crossed her arms and sighed. “I feel terrible for blaming him.”

 

“As well you should,” came his no-nonsense reply, and she stifled a whimper.

 

“I deserve that,” she whispered, swallowing thickly. “But... did he mention anything about... A conversation maybe? Did he bring anything up that would have –”

 

He sniffed lightly and pointed at a picture of her and her father. “This is Travis Bloom?”

 

“Y-yes,” Alana muttered, immediately uncomfortable, as she still found it difficult to hear his name spoken aloud.

 

“His death was attributed to the Chesapeake Ripper, wasn't it?”

 

Her stomach fell to her feet and a rush of nausea swept over her. “Yes... He, uh-”

 

The nurse she'd hired for Delilah suddenly came shuffling out of the kitchen, and Alana watched as she eyed Hannibal with deep distrust. Hannibal, however, simply turned to her and offered a warm smile. “Ah, good morning,” he said cheerily, evidently oblivious to the rail-thin woman's scowl.

 

She merely grunted in response and turned her eyes toward Alana. “Everything alright in here?”

 

“Yes, Rebecca, everything is f-fine,” Alana tried to assure her, shakily running her fingers through her hair as she took a few measured breaths. The nurse eyed her warily, then shot Hannibal another suspicious glare before bustling back into the kitchen as Alana began to pace. Discussing her father's murder was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do this early in the morning... Or ever, for that matter.

 

Travis Bloom's death had been more than just a murder; he hadn't simply been killed and discarded. The Ripper, as it was assumed, had bled him out slowly, extending his suffering and presumably watching him die, before following with a calculated mutilation of his body. Posthumously, Travis had been severed into at least fifteen pieces, by way of his own power tools, and put back together on the wall of his own garage in a horrific re-imagining of The Crucifixion of Jesus.

 

Alana's stomach did another somersault at the thought and she suddenly had to excuse herself to the restroom, making it just in time to spill the remains of the half a muffin she'd eaten not fifteen minutes prior. After brushing the stomach acid from her teeth and tending to the smudges of mascara beneath her lower lash line, she held a cool hand to her clammy forehead and carefully walked back to the living room.

 

“Sorry,” she muttered, moving slowly to sit on the couch as she struggled for words. “I-I know it's been over a year now, but it still...”

 

“Hurts,” he supplied somberly, and she gave a jerky nod. “Death has a habit of touching us in ways we can't imagine until we've experienced it. Were you present when he was found?”

 

“No,” Alana shook her head rapidly, her eyes focused on the coffee table.

 

“A small mercy,” he replied, clearing his throat before adding quietly, “and what of Delilah?”

 

“N-no. Dad and her didn't... didn't get along very well, when we were growing up, so... She wasn't ever really at the house very much.”

 

“I see. Curious, isn't it?”

 

Alana glanced up at him and blinked questioningly.

 

“The timing of events,” he clarified, but she was still confused.

 

“The... timing...?”

 

“Your father was butchered, and Delilah's mental instability came shortly after.”

 

Wrapping her arms around herself, Alana inhaled deeply through her nose and shook her head. “I've thought about that... That his m-murder caused her to snap, but it doesn't really make sense, does it? They weren't very close.”

 

“Closeness is subjective,” Hannibal murmured, his eyes drifting to the happy faces in the photographs once more.

 

The rather nebulous statement hung in the air as Alana tried to process it. She supposed just the notion of such a gruesome event happening in their childhood home could have pushed someone to madness, someone who was already unstable to begin with, but she'd always thought Delilah a fair bit stronger than that – quite sane, at the very least. As she thought back on their childhood, she couldn't recall any instance of Delilah exhibiting signs or symptoms of mental illness.

 

“Even when mom told us dad wasn't Delilah's biological father, she took it well,” she pondered aloud. “I mean, she's always been as much of a pain in the ass as she is now – just without the cr-”

 

“If the next word out of your mouth is 'crazy,' I'm going to be sorely disappointed in you.”

 

Alana frowned and stood from the couch. “You haven't even – you haven't witnessed it, Hannibal. She goes completely off the rails.”

 

“Then enlighten me.”

 

She pulled out her phone to check the time and, noting it was only 7:20, sighed as she threw the device down on the couch and pursed her lips in thought. “She acts... She acts like she's somewhere else. Like she can't see anyone or anything around her. Not as if she's blind, or anything, just like she's not seeing what's really there, you know?”

 

Hannibal's brow raised in interest and he leaned his hip against the arm of couch as he listened in silence.

 

“Sometimes she's violent, but that's rare. Mostly she just wanders off and talks to herself. If you try to intervene, she usually just clams up and it's a bitch to get her talking again; other times she lashes out, especially if you touch her. I've learned it's easiest just to herd her into the safest nearby room and let her mutter to herself until she falls sleep. She always falls asleep after.”

 

“Exhaustion is unsurprising,” he interjected. “Dissociative events can be very taxing.”

 

Alana nodded as she toyed with the leaves of a faux potted plant in the corner of her living room. “When I asked for your help the first time,” she continued softly, “it was because of whatever happened at the dance studio. I got a call from the police and had to come pick her up. They told me they'd received a noise complaint and found her sitting in the corner, covered in blood, with her instructor unconscious on the floor. When he came to, neither would explain exactly what had happened, but her instructor said he wouldn't press charges as long as she never came back. And all Delilah said was that she never wanted to see him again, so it wouldn't be an issue and –”

 

“What was her instructor's name,” he interrupted quietly.

 

“Um, Mark... something? I can't remember now.”

 

Hannibal pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. “Please, continue.”

 

“Right...” Alana exhaled loudly and rubbed her arms as she turned to face him. “After the incident, she spent over a week practically a zombie; she called out from work and spent most of her time sleeping. She was gradually coming out of it, and one day I tried again to get her to talk and she exploded on me. She started breaking things and I had to just hide in the bathroom until she'd calmed down. When I could finally approach her, I gave her an extra half dose of meds hoping it would help her wake up calm, and once she was asleep, that was the night I came to see you –”

 

She watched as the doctor's eyes grew wide and she blinked in confusion. “What?”

 

“You can't be serious,” he snapped, his tone suddenly furious.

 

“I don't under–”

 

“You could have killed your sister, do you realize that? Her dosage was already excessive, and a Quetiapine overdose is not to be trifled with.”

 

“It was only half a pill. I-... I figured it would help keep her calm.”

 

“She was experiencing Tachycardia when you brought her to me,” he explained grimly. “Mild though it was...”

 

Alana's stomach sank to her feet and she swallowed thickly. “Oh god, I didn't – I didn't mean to –“

 

“I've instructed her to stop taking it, if she hasn't told you.”

 

“She rarely tells me anything.”

 

Hannibal scoffed and crossed to the front door. “Pathetic communication skills seem to run rampant in your family, Alana. I suggest you work on rectifying that.”

 

Alana's mouth fell open, fully intent to argue, but he simply bid her a firm 'good day' and left, pulling the door shut behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

_ **Chapter 5** _

 

 

_Paradise Café_

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_1210 Olive St., Baltimore, MD_

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_Friday – 12:05 PM_

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“'Lilah, sweetie, take your lunch! You've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all morning.”

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Delilah carefully set a customer's latte down with a warm smile and dashed back behind the counter. “Do chickens really do that?” She asked distractedly, quickly setting to work on another drink order as she peeked over her shoulder at the scowling woman.

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“Delilah,” Maggie warned, trying to be stern and failing as her wrinkled lips rapidly twisted into an affectionate smile. “Dammit child, get your ass out of here!”

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“Wow, two curse words in one sentence, and in front of customers – I'm playin' with fire here, aren't I?” She teased, finishing up a cappuccino and popping a danish in the oven to warm. Maggie simply gave her a withering glare and Delilah chuckled lightly. “I will. Right after I bring these out to table three, okay? I have to make a phone call, anyway.”

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“Mmhm,” the woman grumbled, shooting her a look that told her she'd better keep her word, before she smiled again and bustled over to the front counter to tend to the next line of customers.

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It had been like this for the majority of the day, with a steady stream of customers and very little downtime; some ordering multiple beverages just so they wouldn't feel bad about sitting for hours mooching the building's Wi-fi. It had been a few years since Delilah had been in college, but judging by the panic in the air and the fact that it was October, she guessed it must be midterms, or something.

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Finally taking her lunch shortly after the time she would usually be leaving for the day, Delilah hung her apron up in the back of the café and blew Maggie a kiss before taking a short walk down the street, to her favourite little Italian restaurant. She ordered pesto tortellini and a glass of water, and opted to sit on the veranda to eat. While waiting for her meal to arrive, she pulled out her cell and dialed the number to Dr. Lecter's office. The phone rang several times and she was getting ready to hang up, when a soothing voice slid into her ear:

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_'You've reached the office of Doctor Hannibal Lecter. I am unable to tend to the phone right now, so please leave a brief, detailed message, and I will return your call as promptly as possible. Thank you, and have a pleasant day.'_

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The beep sounded and Delilah's mind suddenly blanked. “I- Er, hi,” she stammered, feeling her face burn as she began absently toying with her cloth napkin. She took a deep breath and began again. “Hello, Dr. Lecter... it's me, er, Delilah... Bloom? I'm really sorry, but I'll have to be late to my appointment today. One girl called in sick _again_ and the other called and quit, if you can believe that. It's just me and Maggie all day and I don't want to leave her to close up by herself. We close at three today, so I'll be maybe... twenty minutes late? Perhaps only fifteen if I run.” She paused to laugh softly, then cleared her throat and added quickly, “Again I'm very sorry. If you need to reschedule I'll understand. Thank you.”

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She hung up the phone and tossed it onto the table just as her food arrived, and she cut her lunch break in half by inhaling her food as quickly as possible before rushing back to the café. When she arrived back at work, she found things had finally died down, and the rest of her shift went by pleasantly smoothly. She kept her phone in her back pocket and checked it periodically, but not once did it ring, so she assumed Dr. Lecter would not be rescheduling her appointment – which pleased her more than she thought it wise to admit.

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A few minutes past three o'clock, the last patron finally left and Delilah locked the doors, flipping the welcome sign around to say 'CLOSED.'

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“Whew!” Maggie exclaimed, dropping down at a table and kicking her feet up on another chair. “At least it mellowed out toward the end there, but damn what a day.”

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“Seriously,” she muttered, eyeing the clock as she briskly set about scooping up dishes to wash. She had the dirty dish crate sandwiched between her right hip and wrist, being mindful not to use her wounded hand much though it still throbbed annoyingly. “Do you have any Advil or something?”

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“Sweetheart, I am sixty-two years old, I've got an entire pharmacy in my purse,” she said with a chuckle, as she waved lazily at the counter. “Go on, it's back there somewhere; help yourself.”

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Delilah laughed and thanked her as she dropped the last dish into the bin and circled around behind the counter. Finding Maggie's comically large, beaded bag, she soon realized the woman wasn't kidding, as she fished around through several blister packs and bottles of various medications and eventually found a small container of Tylenol. “That'll work,” she mumbled, popping two into her mouth and taking a swig of water from the tap. She replaced the woman's purse and moved to load up the dishwasher, pulling out her phone and searching for some music to keep herself entertained.

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“None of your weird shit!” Maggie hollered suddenly, and she turned to stick her tongue out at the older woman.

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“What weird shit?” she asked, feigning ignorance. “You mean anything that's come out in the last decade, old-timer?”

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“Eh, put a sock in it you brat,” the woman teased good-naturedly. “Just play something good for a change, will ya? None of this Eddie Sheernan garbage.”

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“I don't even listen to Ed– oh, alright,” Delilah conceded, scrolling down to a 60's playlist and hooking her phone up to the speaker system.

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A high-pitched electric organ sounded first, before Jim Morrison's velvety voice flooded the café: _'You know that it would be untrue... You know that I would be a liar... If I was to say to you – girl, we couldn't get much higher...'_

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Maggie let out a hoot of approval and skipped behind the counter, singing along hilariously poorly and knocking her hip into Delilah's to get her to join in. Delilah rolled her eyes at the woman's ridiculousness, but sang along all the same as they shared the task of tackling the dishes.

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The Doors eventually melted into Pink Floyd, then The Temptations' ' _My Girl_ ,' and the pair snapped their fingers and sang along, with Delilah improvising an admittedly silly little ballet routine as she moved about the cozy café, sanitizing tables. As she pirouetted away from one table to clean up the last of the day, she caught sight of a looming figure lurking at the windowfront and yelped in surprise.

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Doctor Lecter was standing just outside, his hands in his pockets and one corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” she muttered, holding her rag to her chest and taking a few deep breaths. Both his eyebrows raised as he glanced pointedly at the front door, and she hissed at Maggie to quiet down before rushing over to turn the key in the lock and let him in.

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“My sincerest apologies for startling you,” he said at once, though his lips were still twisted in a smirk.

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“I-It's okay,” Delilah mumbled, staggering backward as he entered the café. Steppenwolf's ' _Magic Carpet Ride_ ' began to play and she shoved a lock of hair from her face with her forearm, struggling to focus. “I, um... I just... I'm sorry, but what are you doing here?”

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Hannibal chuckled as he casually observed the cheerily-decorated establishment. It looked like a sunflower field and a luau had made a baby, and Delilah had the distinct impression it was not his sort of place.

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“Well, I regrettably do not have a magic carpet in my possession,” he began teasingly, his eyes drifting up to the speakers in the corners, “but I thought you may like a ride to my office, rather than going for a run.”

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“Smooth,” Maggie interjected, much too loudly, and Delilah groaned.

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“Y-Yes, that would be-... um, I appreciate it. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He nodded and she quickly darted back around the counter to dispose of her dirty rag and carefully wash her hands.

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She watched Maggie out the corner of her eye as she took care to scrub around her dressings; the woman was brazenly sizing up Dr. Lecter, and she let out another groan under her breath. As she was drying her hands, Maggie scooted over to her and whispered conspiratorially. “He's intense. Bit on the older side, though, not that I'm judging...”

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“Maggie, he's my _doctor,_ ” she replied exasperatedly.

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“Yeah, I'll bet you could play doctor with –”

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“MAGGIE, PLEASE!” She shouted, her face burning enough she worried she may set the whole place on fire. Touching her cool fingers to her cheeks, she lowered her voice again and leaned toward the older woman. “I mean he's my psychiatrist, so stop being so crass.”

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“Ohhh, oh oh oh,” Maggie muttered, peeking around Delilah to get another look at the man. “...He's still handsome. And he drove all this way –”

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“His office is like ten minutes away.”

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“Still, he didn't have to...” She trailed off, watching as Dr. Lecter bent to inspect a gaudy piece of what Maggie called 'art' hanging on the wall; some multi-coloured, macrame thing she had no name for. Turning back to Delilah, an appreciative grin plastered on her face, she added quietly, “Life's too short not to grab onto whatever... or whoever inserts themselves into your life, you know.”

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“Maggie, he didn't insert himself anywhere. He –” She caught herself and snapped her mouth shut, realizing what she'd said just as the older woman slapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Oh, don't you dare say –“

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“Yet!” She exclaimed, dissolving into a fit of cackling laughter.

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Delilah let out a frustrated growl and quickly snatched her phone, abruptly cutting off the music. “I will see you tomorrow,” she said firmly, giving the woman a quick hug before gathering her purse and rushing back to Dr. Lecter. Maggie was hot on her heels, however, and she grimaced as she watched her march right up to introduce herself.

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“Maggie Cartwright,” she announced, thrusting her hand out toward him.

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Hannibal took her hand and shook it politely. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright.”

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“Likewise,” Maggie replied, tossing a wink to Delilah.

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Either he was being polite to spare her further embarrassment, or he didn't quite know how to respond to that, but he simply inclined his head with a tight smile. “Shall we, Miss Bloom?” He then inquired, turning to Delilah and moving to hold the door open for her.

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Maggie clicked her tongue appreciatively. “Such a proper gentleman,” she cooed. “That's rare these days.”

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“I always endeavor to do my best, in all things, Mrs. Cartwright,” he assured her, and her eyes flashed as she shot a playful grin to the younger female.

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“Oh, Maggie, enough,” Delilah sighed, shaking her head. “Have a good night.”

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“You too. And thank you, Dr. Lecter,” she added, her tone a touch more serious, “for looking after my Delilah. She may not be blood, but she's my baby.”

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Hannibal nodded and gave her one last kind smile before resting his hand on Delilah's lower back and guiding her out to his Bentley.

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If her face wasn't flushed enough, her entire back tingled and burned where he touched her, and she had to focus very intently on each step she took. When he deposited her in the passenger's seat and shut the door, she closed her eyes and took two long, deep breaths before groping for the belt and buckling herself in. Hannibal slid into his seat and she could feel his eyes on her as he buckled his own seat belt.

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“Quite a character,” he commented lightly, pressing the key into the ignition and sending the car purring to life.

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“Mmhm,” she hummed in response, finally chancing a glance at him as they started for his office building. A highly amused grin was plastered on his face and she ducked her head, cramming a curl behind her ear. “Th- uh, thank you, for picking me up. You didn't have to.”

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“I know quite well what I do and do not have to do,” he said simply. “But you're welcome, of course.”

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Silence blanketed the car as they finished the short drive to Dr. Lecter's office, and she spent the time agonizing over Maggie's behavior. She thought she should apologize for the woman being so forward, but it hadn't seemed to bother him in the slightest – if anything, he only seemed entertained by the whole ordeal. She thought perhaps it would be better to just let it slide.

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When he parked, they kept pace with each other as they walked up to the office, and he led her through the stark white door. Depositing her purse on the table beside the gray leather clients' chair, she looked up while trying to untie her apron and spotted several curious items set atop Dr. Lecter's desk: a beautifully ornate, cream-coloured porcelain tea pot painted with pale pink roses; two matching cups, and saucers; and at least a dozen, or more, tins of what Delilah assumed must be every variety of tea known to the western world.

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“You weren't kidding,” she breathed, and a chuckle sounded just behind her, causing her to startle.

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“I am nothing if not a man of my word,” he said softly, as his larger, much more dexterous hands suddenly joined hers and made quick work of undoing her apron. He pulled the loop over her head and she adjusted her hair as she turned to watch him quickly hang the garment along with his coat.

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“Thank you,” she muttered, staring at him a moment before turning back to the desk.

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Delilah wandered near as she felt Hannibal follow close behind, and they stood staring down at the spread before she chose a metal tin of loose leaf, pomegranate black tea and peered up at him. “Do you have a four course meal hidden away in that back room, too? Or a couple of corpses, perhaps?”

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Hannibal looked entirely taken aback as he stared down at her for a long moment. He then carefully took the tin from her and began filling an infuser with the leaves. She watched him set the metal utensil in one of the cups and carefully pour hot water over it; after stirring the infuser a bit, he then left it to steep. “The refrigerator isn't nearly large enough,” he finally replied ambiguously, offering her a smirk as he shook the tea infuser around thrice more and handed her the cup.

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Taking the proffered beverage, she held it close and breathed deeply. “Mm,” she sighed, “I'm usually a coffee kind of girl but this smells wonderful.”

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“Pomegranates are a fascinating fruit,” he said quietly, carefully steeping his own Earl Grey tea in a second china cup. “Nearly every culture has their own mythos regarding it, but I find the Ancient Greeks' to be the most interesting...”

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“They call it the fruit of the dead, don't they?”

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“Correct,” he replied, clearly pleased. “Do you know why?”

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Delilah shook her head and he spoke as they moved to nurse their beverages in the comfort of their seats.

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“According to the Fates, if anyone apart from Hades himself were to consume food or drink within the Underworld, they were doomed to spend eternity there. Hades had set his sights on the beautiful goddess Persephone, and he stole her away with the intent to make her his bride; by convincing her to eat six pomegranate seeds, he was thereby permitted to keep her as his own –”

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“Only six?” She interrupted, peeking curiously over her cup at him.

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Hannibal nodded. “When Persephone was first taken from her parents, her mother thought her lost forever and fell into despair. It was arguably serendipitous that Persephone only consumed six seeds of the fruit, as this allowed Zeus to foist a bargain upon his brother; he convinced Hades to only keep her for six months out of the year.”

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“A month per seed...” She muttered, taking a sip of her tea. “Her mother was Demeter, yes?”

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“Very good, Delilah, yes. The goddess of fertility. And this is how the Ancient Greeks explained the seasons. When Persephone was permitted to return to her mother, crops grew and the Earth flourished –“

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“Spring and summer...”

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“Precisely. And when she returned to Hades, her mother would mourn again and the Earth was infertile.”

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“That would be autumn and winter.”

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He nodded once more and she laughed softly, staring down at the deep red liquid in her cup. “If I didn't know better, Dr. Lecter, I'd say this little mythology lesson may be dancing on the periphery of flirting.”

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Delilah glanced up when he didn't respond and her breath caught as she found his eyes were fixed on her. There was a severity in his gaze that made her pulse quicken, and she shoved her purse aside to set her cup and saucer down on the glass table with a startlingly loud _clink_.

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She watched his lips twist into a slight grin, as if he were sharing a joke with himself, before he took another swig of tea and sat his cup down as well.

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“Speaking of dance,” he began, promptly rising and carefully removing his suit jacket; she eyed his crisp, white dress shirt and camel vest appreciatively as he crossed to hang it up, and he kept her waiting in silence still as he retrieved a journal and pen from the top of his desk, before finally sitting back down to finish his thought. “I would like you to tell me what happened at Arthur Murray, with someone named... Mark, I believe?”

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Bile rose in her throat at once and she scowled, snatching her tea and taking a deep swig to force it back down. She coughed lightly and frowned down at her cup. “Alana has a big mouth,” she grumbled.

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“To keep pertinent information from one's psychiatrist is to stymie the potential for personal growth, Miss Bloom.”

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Taking a deep breath through her nose, she nodded her assent and exhaled in a great whoosh through her mouth. “Yes, alright,” she muttered, finishing her tea and plonking the cup back down on the side table. Adjusting her skirt and slipping off her shoes, she folded her legs under herself and glared at a spot on the floor.

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“His name is Matt, not Mark,” she corrected first. “And he was my interim ballet instructor at the studio. The woman who'd been teaching me for almost a year fell pregnant, so she had to take an indefinite leave of absence.” She let out an annoyed huff and rolled her eyes.

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“You feel she should have stayed?”

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“No, I _feel_ she shouldn't have gotten herself pregnant.”

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“Why?”

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She listened as he began scratching things into his notes, and she sighed heavily.

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“Because her boyfriend is a prick,” she finally answered, glancing up to find he was staring at her; his eyebrow jumped a fraction, silently urging her to explain. “She just-... Eliza can't drive. Anxiety or... something about a car accident. I don't remember. But he treated her like shit for it.

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“Nearly every time I happened to be around when he'd pick her up or drop her off, I'd always hear him making snide comments about how she was inconveniencing him; how lucky she was to have him; and what would she do if he weren't there to cart her ' _fat ass_ ' around every day?”

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“Delilah, breathe,” Hannibal interjected. “And relax your hands – you're going to damage your sutures.”

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It was then she realized she was shaking with anger, and she focused on loosening her hands as she took several steadying breaths. Her hands eventually fell open and she stared at the crescent shaped indents she'd unwittingly created in her lower palms. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

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“Don't be,” he replied simply. “This Matt sounds like a pathetic excuse for a man, and an even poorer excuse for a boyfriend.”

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“Yeah, so-” She paused and blinked up at him. “How'd you...”

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“Acuity is the hallmark of any psychiatrist worth his salt,” he said simply. “Were you planning on keeping it from me?”

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“No,” she replied quickly. “No, I was going to say... I just didn't expect it to be so obvious.”

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“Why didn't you tell me at the beginning?”

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Leaning on the left arm of the chair, Delilah set her chin on her palm and dug the tip of her fingernail into her bottom lip, thinking for a moment, before shrugging. “I don't know. I suppose I felt the need to make you understand just how much of an asshole he is, before telling you he's the piece of trash I bloodied up.”

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“I'll admit I was assuming whatever he did to provoke you into attacking him would have made that plain.”

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“Well, that's the thing,” she said quietly. “He didn't.”

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“He didn't provoke you?”

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“No, not really. I just saw an opportunity and took it... His shitty behavior toward Eliza had been pissing me off for months; and we ended up alone one day, so I bashed his face into the wall.”

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“How exactly did it happen?”

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Delilah sighed, glaring at the impossibly tall red and gray curtains, as she calmly recalled the series of events. “I was practicing en pointe when I noticed it was just him and me left in the studio; he was crouched by his bag, looking for something. I waited for him to turn. He did. And I kicked him in the groin, grabbed his shirt and shoved him as hard as I could under the barre.

__

 

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“As I'd shoved him, he tried to jerk away from me, so there was quite a bit of momentum when his thick head shattered a good chunk of the mirrored wall.” She sniffed lightly and shrugged, folding her hands over her lap as she added benignly, “He fell unconscious quite abruptly after that.”

__

 

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Hannibal snorted as he scratched a few notes into his journal. “Can't imagine why.”

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Mirroring his amusement with a small smirk of her own, she pressed the tips of her ring fingers into the corners of her eyes and carefully swiped away a few angry tears.

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“From my understanding, you were found covered in blood,” he said quietly, and she stilled in her seat. “Care to tell me how that came to be?”

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Delilah blinked rapidly and slid her legs out from under herself, stretching them a bit before rising and smoothing her skirt down around her hips. “I- uh, s-sorry, what?” She tried and failed to feign ignorance. Desperately searching for a change of topic, she padded around behind the chair and gently gripped at the buttery material, as she slipped her stocking-clad toes along the dark wood grain beneath her.

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“You merely cracked his head open on a mirror,” he replied simply, undeterred. “How, then, did you come to be covered in his blood? Or was that an exaggeration?”

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“H-Head wounds bleed a lot...”

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“I'm aware. That doesn't explain –”

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“I w-was... curious,” she mumbled, her voice whisper-thin.

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“Pardon?”

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Delilah swallowed thickly and shut her eyes tight as she raised her voice. “I was curious.”

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“...About the blood?”

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“ _His_ blood,” she corrected softly. She gnawed on her lower lip as she ran her hands along the smooth leather, outward and back inward, timing the movement with her breathing. “I wanted to know if it felt... different. Warmer or colder, or stickier than...” She trailed off and chanced a glance at Dr. Lecter, finding him leaning forward in his seat, with his elbows resting on his knees, watching her with fervent interest.

__

 

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“Than...? Than what, Delilah?” He goaded her softly.

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“Th-than... other... blood,” she skirted awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears. She couldn't be sure if she imagined the look of disappointment that flashed cross his face, but he leaned back in his seat and sighed heavily.

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“There is something you're keeping from me, Miss Bloom,” he stated firmly. “I trust that you will tell me everything, when you're ready.”

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' _Definitely not imagined,_ ' she thought, and she found a strange comfort in knowing that, to some extent, he knew. Furthermore, that he had this inkling and, rather than force it out of her, was willing to let her tell him in her own time.

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“Do you regret what you've done?”

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Delilah let out a puff of laughter and shook her head. “Not in the slightest.”

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“Good,” he replied swiftly. “He deserved it. What did you tell the police?”

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“...About what?”

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“About why you were covered in blood.”

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“Oh,” she scratched at her temple and tried to regather her thoughts. “Um, well, I didn't really tell them much of anything. And it didn't matter because when he came to all he said was he didn't want to talk about it and that he wouldn't press charges, as long as I didn't come back. The police left shortly after. Which confused me, honestly... I expected them to take us – or at least me – in for some kind of questioning. I mean, it was pretty obviously one-sided...”

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Hannibal nodded pensively. “If I had to venture a guess... I would say they probably thought you two had had a lovers' quarrel. With him not wanting to press charges, and you not speaking, they most likely assumed he was just embarrassed he'd been put down by a woman – and that you were afraid of getting into trouble. Not to mention, domestic violence cases are all too often overlooked or blatantly ignored.”

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“That's terrible.”

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“Quite,” he muttered, staring down at his journal as he jotted a few more notes down.

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“...I haven't talked about this to anyone, you know.” She watched his chestnut eyes dart back up to her, and he offered her a small, but warm, smile.

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“I consider myself honored, then, Miss Bloom.”

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Delilah smiled and finally moved back around her chair, taking up her cup and crossing to retrieve his as well. As she leaned down, his hand suddenly shot out and encircled her wrist, and she looked to him questioningly. “Let me check your sutures,” he insisted, reaching over with his free hand to take her cup and set it on the table.

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“Alright,” she consented, twisting her wrist in his grip to allow him access to her bandaged palm. Hannibal stood abruptly and guided her over to his desk. He moved the tea pot and copious tins aside and motioned for her to sit.

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“On the desk?”

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Hannibal gave her a look that she assumed was the closest he would ever get to actually saying the word 'duh,' and she shrugged before attempting to seat herself in the space provided. She couldn't very well get enough leverage with one hand, which he seemed to comprehend after her first try. “May I?” He asked, holding his hands out to her.

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“Um, yes please,” she replied, letting out a small squeak as he picked her up at the waist with ease and deposited her gently on the edge of the desk.

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He smirked and brought the desk lamp around to her right side, before sitting down in his high-backed chair in front of her and holding her hand directly under the light. She watched as he took great care removing the tape and gauze, and he let out a pleased hum.

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“You're healing well,” he assessed quietly, carefully laying his fingertips over hers and tilting her hand from side to side against his palm. “As it's already been a week, I expect you'll be ready to have these removed in just another few days – so long as you're careful.”

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“I'm careful. Today was a nightmare and I managed to keep my hand from splitting open, so I'd say that's a win.”

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He smiled affably and started to release her, saying something about redressing the wound, but she flexed instinctively, catching his middle and index fingers in her grip. He paused, staring fixedly at their hands, and when he didn't pull away she slipped her knuckles over his and lightly stroked his hand. She watched his brows knit as he seemed to deliberate his next move.

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A small part of her thought to be embarrassed; to assume she'd overstepped some obvious sort of boundary. But she would need all her fingers, and quite possibly a few toes, to tally the amount of times he'd touched her willingly and without any actual necessity. A gentle hand upon her back; fingertips brushing skin; a knuckle tracing her bottom lip... She could even swear she'd felt his mouth upon her once, somewhere on her face, but perhaps it had been a dream. Somehow, she still highly doubted she had anything to be shy about now.

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“Thank you,” she said softly, and her voice seemed to snap him out of his pensive daze. His gaze drifted up to her shoulder as she added, “for taking care of me.”

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He cleared his throat and nodded, the hand cradling hers sliding slowly up her forearm, his thumb slipping up and over to trace along the bluish veins visible just beneath her skin. “You are... easy to care for,” he said quietly, and warmth slithered down her spine, causing her to shiver.

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“You're a good doctor,” she replied, tilting her head and dipping a bit in an effort to catch his attention.

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Hannibal reluctantly looked up at her face and slowly shook his head once. “I think the APA would argue I've violated nearly a dozen sections of their code of conduct with you, Miss Bloom.”

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Emboldened by the flash of crimson in his russet eyes, she slid carefully off the desk and placed herself directly between his knees; as she moved, her arm traveled up along his, and she twisted as her hand reached his bicep, digging her nails into the soft Supima cotton of his shirt sleeve, any pain momentarily forgotten. He stared up at her in wonder and her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip as she leaned near and whispered unabashedly, "Then why not make it a _clear_ dozen, and be sure?"

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At once his hand under her arm gripped her elbow firmly, holding her there; his free arm slowly reached up to cup her face, his thumb dragging across her cheekbone as his fingers lost themselves in the sea of curls at the nape of her neck. “You consistently manage to surprise me, Miss Bloom...”

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	6. Chapter 6

_ **Chapter 6** _

 

 

Delilah dared to lean nearer, fully intent on being the one to make the first move – at least then it would give him the option of plausible deniability, should he choose to deny it – but evidently it was his turn to surprise her.

 

Propriety launched itself out the window, as Hannibal suddenly lunged forward, out of his seat, and pinned her against the edge of his desk. The fingers in her hair tightened their grip, his thumb skirting down her cheek to tuck under her chin as he angled her face just the way he wanted. The wood of the desk bit into her backside, as his other hand held her firm about the hip, and she vaguely thought it should hurt – but then his mouth crashed into hers and she could feel or think of nothing else but him.

 

Hannibal sought access to her mouth at once and she complied without fuss; his tongue was cool against hers as she allowed him to explore her mouth, and the tart sweetness of the pomegranate tea was fast replaced with spicy citrus as her head began to swim. She snaked her arms around his neck and dug her nails into the fabric of his vest, pawing at him and desperately attempting to draw him nearer. But his hands stayed cemented against her hip and neck as he struggled to keep the hairsbreadth of space between them, his entire body tense with a clear resolve not to go too far.

 

As the possibility of fainting danced across her mind, he suddenly caught her bottom lip and pulled back slowly, nipping at the swollen flesh before releasing her lips. A whimper escaped her and he chuckled as he rested his chin upon her head, his hand on her neck disentangling itself from her hair and slipping down to rest loosely around her throat, as they both struggled to catch their breath.

 

“This is... highly inappropriate,” he eventually murmured, even as the hand on her hip slid up under her shirt to press firmly into the dip at her lower back, tugging her forward in one fluid motion and finally molding her body to his. The heat of him was nearly overwhelming as she melted against his chest and inhaled deeply, taking in the deliciously masculine cedar, sage, and spices of his cologne. “Should anyone – ”

 

“No one has to know,” Delilah countered hastily, leaning up on her toes to lave at the skin of his throat with her tongue; he groaned softly and dipped down to catch her earlobe between his teeth. “Doctor-patient... confidentiality, and such,” she muttered, her breath hitching and words dissolving into an obscene moan as he bit down. Gripping her throat, he dragged his mouth across her cheek and captured her lips in another dizzying kiss.

 

Just as he was maneuvering her up onto his desk for a second time that afternoon, a frantic knocking sounded at the main door.

 

Hannibal's hold on her suddenly tightened painfully, as if he were guarding a precious belonging from being snatched away; she let out a squeak against his lips and he loosened his grip at once, careful to then ease her back down to her feet. He held her steady before gingerly plucking her arms from around his neck and taking a wide step backward – immediately bumping his legs into the forgotten chair behind him. Scowling, he nudged it back out of his way with his foot and motioned silently for her to reclaim her proper seat.

 

Delilah quickly skittered around the desk and stuffed her feet back into her shoes before dropping onto the gray leather, chest heaving as she took several deep breaths to calm her frayed nerves.

 

While Hannibal smoothed out his clothing and Delilah tried to cool the heat in her cheeks with the backs of her slightly numb fingers, the knocking suddenly ceased. They both froze again, staring at the door with a distinct, shared hope that whomever it was had decided to leave. She could hardly be so lucky, however, and she stifled a groan as the knocking started back up again.

 

The clearly perturbed psychiatrist shoved his chair back to his desk and adjusted his tie, his mouth a thin line as he stalked across the room and wrenched the door open without ceremony. Delilah peeked around him to find a pudgy man with a beard just outside, wringing his hands and capering about.

 

“Doctor Lecter, I'm sorry but – ” the man exploded at once, stumbling forward with clear intent to rush into the office; Hannibal sidestepped quickly, effectively blocking his entry and halting his explanation.

 

For all the quiet rage she had seen glittering in his eyes, Hannibal did an impeccable job of keeping his tone courteous as he replied calmly, “Franklyn, I am currently in session with another patient.”

 

“Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. I thought you said you didn't make appointments on Fridays... Y'know, 'cause, wh-when I asked...”

 

Delilah blinked at that and curiously studied Hannibal's back as he bristled.

 

“I make exceptions for certain cases.”

 

“O-Oh, right, sure. Of course,” Franklyn grumbled, his feelings evidently hurt. “I just-... Well, I was reading this article online about impostor syndrome a-and I started panicking. What if I'm not really who I think I am? What if I'm subconsciously taking over someone else's identity and –“

 

“Enough,” Hannibal interjected, his composure slipping. Whatever article the man claimed to have read, it was obvious even to Delilah that he hadn't finished it, or simply didn't understand it – both seemed equally likely. “You would do well to respect your own privacy as much as I do – as I've said, we are not alone. Your next appointment isn't for another week and a half, but if you're that concerned I can find time for you on Monday.”

 

In the awkward silence that followed, Delilah peeked at the clock behind her to find it was six minutes past four-thirty – her hour was already up. Slowly rising to her feet, she cautiously began to inch toward the coat rack.

 

“But- but maybe after... I can just – Oh, hi there!” Delilah froze mid-step and looked wide-eyed to her right, to find both Hannibal and Franklyn staring at her. Ignoring Dr. Lecter's narrowed gaze, she tossed an uncomfortable smile to the other male and quickly snagged her apron without comment.

 

“Miss Bloom, we are not quite through,” Hannibal said quietly, sending a shiver down her spine.

 

“I just noticed the time,” she explained, gesturing toward the clock. “This seems... urgent. So –”

 

“Kindly sit back down.”

 

Delilah stared at him for a long moment, then paced back to her chair. Once she was seated, he quickly turned back to Franklyn. “Please give us a few minutes and I'll be right with you.”

 

“Oh, sure! Okay! I'll be here!”

 

Hannibal snapped the door shut as the man scrambled off to a seat. He stood staring down at the doorknob in his hand, evidently contemplating something, before he suddenly breezed right past her and began rifling through an oak credenza resting against the red painted wall. Crossing her legs, she leaned both forearms on the arm of the chair to watch him curiously. Before she could figure out what he was doing, he was advancing toward her with several white packets in one hand.

 

“What are those?”

 

Ignoring her, he stuffed all but one of the packets into her purse and quickly ripped the remaining one open to reveal a thin rectangle of gauze lined in surgical tape. Grabbing her injured hand, he crouched down and carefully laid the gauze over her stitches, taking his time to ensure the tape was flush against her skin.

 

“When you get home,” he finally spoke, his tone professorial and his eyes focused solely on his task, “I want you to remove this, clean it – just around the sutures – and apply a thin layer of petroleum jelly to the sutures themselves. Then a fresh bandage. Do this every twenty-four hours.”

 

Clearing her throat, she nodded and stared at his face, silently willing him to look at her. After a moment, his eyes darted upward and she whispered tentatively, “...Can't you just tell that man to leave?”

 

Hannibal raked his teeth over his bottom lip, then shook his head. “That would seem rather suspicious now, wouldn't it?”

 

“I suppose so.” She shrugged, brushing two slightly trembling fingers across her lips in a poor attempt to hide her disappointment. She couldn't be sure whether he was upset with himself, or her, for what they'd nearly done; or perhaps, she hoped, he was simply irritated with Franklyn for interrupting, just as she was. “Well, thank you...”

 

He inclined his head in response, but said nothing more, and she took his silence as her cue to leave.

 

As she rose from her seat, Hannibal stayed rooted to the spot and she peered curiously down at him, a hand moving of its own volition to run her fingers through his golden brown hair; she watched the light catch a few graying strands as she gently scratched her nails against his scalp, and smiled as a low groan rumbled in his chest.

 

“You are making it exceedingly difficult for me to let you go,” he said quietly, ghosting his hands over her curves as he stood to loom over her.

 

Fingers slipped from his hair and she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Then don't,” she challenged, leaning up to kiss him once more. He suddenly gripped her sides hard, halting her advance, and she pouted.

 

Smirking, he brought a hand to her chin and scrubbed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “Patience,” he clipped, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead before releasing her and taking a step back. Her hands slid down his chest and dropped to her sides.

 

With nothing more to say, she gathered her belongings and crossed the room, feeling his eyes follow as she exited the office.

 

“Hey again!” Franklyn called, jumping to his feet the second she set foot in the waiting room. The man reminded her of a puppy – an overexcited golden retriever, perhaps, starved for attention.

 

Delilah simply forced a smile that felt more like a grimace, offering him a polite wave before rushing down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal watched her curls bounce about her shoulders as she disappeared through the door, and he tried in vain to hold on to her scent as long as possible; sweetness and spice were at once replaced with a putrid mixture of cheap aftershave and nervous sweat, as Franklyn then barged into his office right after and shut the door behind himself. He fought to keep a scowl off his face as he regarded the much shorter man, indulging him in a handshake and waiting until he turned away to wipe his hand on his pant leg.

 

“Gee, I can't imagine why a woman like that would need therapy. Probably an eating disorder or something, huh? Girls always seem to think they're too fat, no matter how much they weigh. It's so sad.”

 

“... I would rather not discuss my other patients, if that's alright with you.”

 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, and Hannibal's eye twitched involuntarily as the man flopped himself down on the teal settee. “So anyway, about that article –”

 

“Franklyn, you do not have impostor syndrome,” he interjected exasperatedly. “As that would suggest that you were worth anything more than the sum of your parts – and with you it is abundantly clear that the mere sum is all that you are, and ever shall be.”

 

The incredibly thinly-veiled insult seemed to go completely over Franklyn's head, not that Hannibal could say he was surprised; he smoothed a hand over his brow as the man squinted off into the distance, trying to work it out.

 

“So... what you're saying is... I-I'm just me?” He finally, and entirely inaccurately, surmised. “That I'm not taking anyone's identity at all, but that everything I think I am, is just... me?”

 

“...Yes, Franklyn, that is exactly what I'm saying.”

 

Hannibal shut his eyes to hide an eye roll, then moved to the coat rack to grab his jacket and overcoat. “Now that that's settled,” he continued, pulling his jacket on and quickly buttoning it before folding the coat over his arm. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to bid you a good afternoon, as I have somewhere to be.”

 

“Oh gosh, of course!” Franklyn jumped from the settee and scrambled for the door, fumbling with the knob for a moment before yanking it open and holding it for him. “I know you're a busy man; sorry for just showing up like this.”

 

“It's fine. After you,” he clipped, gesturing with his keys for him to step out first, before exiting the room and locking the door. “In the future, I would prefer for you to call.”

 

“Right, yeah... sorry about that.”

 

Without reply, Hannibal quickly retreated to the safety of his car and unabashedly sped out of the parking lot.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Alana and Delilah Bloom’s Residence,_

_103 W. Cross St, #44, Baltimore, MD_

– _5:32 PM_

 

When Delilah finally arrived at Alana's apartment, she found her sister curled up on the couch, snoring. Keeping her eyes cast downward, away from the photos she knew were on the wall just above, she dropped her purse and slammed the door as hard as possible, smirking as the woman abruptly jerked awake.

 

“Mornin' sleepyhead.”

 

Alana's eyes widened at once and she leapt to her feet. “ _Morning?!_ ”

 

“Whoa there, turbo, it's not really morning.” She laughed as the brunette scowled and rubbed at her eyes. “Sheesh, long day?”

 

“Every day is too damn long,” she grumbled, yawning loudly as she pulled her fingers through her hair to tame the sleep-induced frizz. “How was Dr. Lecter?”

 

Delilah's heart skipped a beat. “Wha-?” Her sister's bewildered squint served as a fast reminder that there was no way she could possibly know what had happened in Dr. Lecter's office today. Taking a deep breath, she cleared her throat and shrugged as she stepped out of her shoes and left them by the door. “He-... He's well, I guess.”

 

“...I mean your appointment. How did it go?”

 

“You mean am I fully sane and no longer a massive thorn in your side yet? Dr. Lecter is a good psychiatrist, but I don't know if he's _that_ good...”

 

Alana scoffed and rolled her eyes, padding into the kitchen. “You know what I mean.”

 

Delilah lingered in the entryway, watching her sister retrieve milk and butter from the fridge, along with a box of macaroni and cheese from the cupboard. “Kraft tonight, huh? It's like we're kids again and mom burnt the roast.”

 

“Yeah, but I didn't burn anything. I'm just feeling lazy.”

 

“Lazy?” She gasped exaggeratedly. “ _So_ unlike you, Miss I have a Master's and a PHD- _and_ I consult for the FBI- _and_ I lecture at Quantico.”

 

Though she rolled her eyes again, it was clear by the grin plastered on her face that Alana was feeling a bit smug. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she muttered, pulling her hair up in a loose bun as she tore into the box of macaroni and set to filling a pot with water.

 

Delilah snickered and began absently scratching around the palm of her right hand. Her fingers brushed the bandage and she realized she'd forgotten to change it. “Whoops. Be right back.”

 

Ducking out to snag the bandages from her purse, she then locked herself in the bathroom to tend to her wound as Hannibal had instructed. As she laid the gauze over the freshly petroleum-coated stitches, she debated whether she should tell Alana what had happened between them today. It wasn't as though she would report him and have his license revoked... _Would she?_

 

When she thought hard about it, Delilah honestly couldn't be sure. What they'd done had been, as Hannibal said, highly inappropriate, and unprofessional – on his part. The situation could easily be misconstrued as him, a well-known and highly respected psychiatrist, taking advantage of her, a seemingly unwitting patient; and with how Alana was treating her, especially lately, she couldn't say she expected her to assume otherwise.

 

“That won't do,” she muttered aloud, deciding it would be in everyone's best interest just to keep her mouth shut. Delilah was good at keeping things to herself.

 

After taking a few minutes to wash and moisturize her face, she popped a Zoloft and swallowed it with a handful of water from the tap before wandering into her room to change. As she was slipping into a pair of comfortable sweats and an oversized sweater, it suddenly occurred to her that a certain nuisance hadn't come up to check her pupils, or pat her down for sharp objects.

 

Suspiciously peeking around, as if the woman would pounce at any moment, Delilah cautiously made her way back to the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter to watch Alana. “So... where's Nurse Ratched?”

 

Alana snorted at the ' _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'_ reference, as she poured pasta into the now boiling water. “I fired Rebecca.”

 

“Wait, what?” Delilah blinked rapidly and dropped down to stand next to her. “Why?”

 

“Hannibal was right.” She sighed, flinging the Kraft box into the trashcan as Delilah picked up a wooden spoon to stir the macaroni. “I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do everything right by you, the way _I think_ things should be done and... And I'm just failing miserably. Maybe my women's intuition is broken.”

 

“Nothing about you is broken, 'Lana.” She sat the spoon down and gave her sister a gentle shove. “I appreciate what you've been trying to do – honestly. I wouldn't have signed the papers otherwise.”

 

She watched Alana's brow crease as she gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “I never-… I never wanted to make you feel like I'm trying to control you, or something. After all this started, I just-... It seemed like the best option, you know? Especially since mom is off... _wherever._ ”

 

Delilah cringed at the venom in her tone. For the better part of the past year, their mother had been off and away, visiting every country she'd ever had even the slightest inclination to see. While Delilah was proud of her for having adventures and finally trying to find herself, Alana made it quite clear she thought it was all in poor taste. They hadn't spoken to one another in months, though she and Delilah talked at least once every other week.

 

“Sh-She's in Barcelona right now,” she mumbled, poking at the chilly linoleum floor with her toe. “If you wanted to know.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“But, uh-... Anyway, I know, and I agreed, hence why I signed my life away,” she teased. Rather than laugh as expected, Alana's face suddenly crumpled and tears flooded her eyes. “Oh! No, don't do that; you know I hate when people cry. Oh god –“

 

“I just feel so stupid!” Her sister wailed, throwing her arms in the air before burying her face in her hands. “I keep fucking everything up! With you, and W-Will, and –”

 

“What did you fuck up with-... Wait, you big liar, _were_ you two dating?”

 

“No!” She snapped, her voice muffled against her palms. She sniffed loudly and swatted the tears from her cheeks before shoving past Delilah to get to the fridge. Alana procured a bottle of white wine from the door, cursing under her breath about not having any beer, and proceeded to grumpily scour the kitchen for a way to open it. “I told you before, we're just friends,” she grumbled, yanking a fourth drawer open and letting out a triumphant _'Aha!'_ as she discovered the corkscrew.

 

Delilah watched her struggle with the device for a moment before carefully taking it and the bottle out of her hands. “I'll do this, you get glasses,” she instructed, watching Alana out the corner of her eye as she carefully uncorked the wine.

 

While her sister poured two generous glasses and swiftly began chugging one, Delilah tended to their dinner. “So, uh, I'm guessing you wish you weren't... just friends... with Will Graham?” She asked tentatively, dumping the strained macaroni back into the pot and stirring in a healthy pat of butter. She emptied the cheese packet into a small bowl and poured in a bit of milk, quickly combining it with a miniature whisk as Alana finally came up from her glass for air.

 

“No, I-... Yes, alright?” She pouted down at her glass before polishing off her drink and immediately pouring herself some more pinot grigio. “He's a mess, but... I like him. A lot.”

 

Adding the cheese mixture, Delilah gave the macaroni one last good stir before grabbing a set of bowls and portioning it out between them. “You want him to be _your_ mess.”

 

“Maybe... Little more,” Alana insisted. “Hell, just split all of it between us. Who cares.”

 

“Alrighty then.” She scooped the rest into the bowls and gave Alana a fair bit more, figuring she'd need it if she planned on drinking so much tonight, then sat the pot in the sink and let it fill with hot water. “You know I can't have more than a glass tonight, right? Alcohol and meds...”

 

“Yeeep.”

 

Moving back to the living room with their sad dinners in hand, and Alana clutching the wine bottle under her arm, the pair sank into the couch and stared at the blank TV screen. They ate and drank in silence for a time, with Delilah only sipping her wine sparingly and Alana knocking it back like water, before Delilah finally decided to speak.

 

“So, why are you so torn up about this guy? I mean, can't you just tell him you wanna have puppies with him, or something?”

 

Alana snorted into her glass and sat it down, taking a few more bites of macaroni as she pondered. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't want anything to do with me now, after what happened with you.”

 

Frowning, Delilah stared down at her neon yellow pasta and pushed it around with her spoon. “Sorry...”

 

“Nuh-uhm,” she quickly protested around a mouthful of food, choking it down and taking a swig of wine. “It's not your fault. I had a stupid idea, tryin' to make shit easier on myself – like I always do – and I caused you to have a thing... and then I alienated him, 'cause I blamed him, thinking he caused it or something and... God, what a mess.”

 

“Alana, it's not your fault I... _'had a thing.'_ It's not his fault, either.” The only response she got from her sister was a loud _'pffff,'_ and at that point she knew Alana was more than tipsy. “Oh boy, maybe you should slow down.”

 

“I am fine,” she replied grouchily, sloppily setting her empty bowl on the coffee table and taking up the near-empty bottle of wine. She stared at the label before turning it completely upside down and emptying the rest into her glass. “And THAT is another thing Hannibal was right about, y'know,” she suddenly added, and Delilah looked to her in confusion.

 

“Uh, and what was that?”

 

“You and me, we have real shitty communication skills.”

 

“Well, that's not really much of a surprise, is it? I mean, look at how we grew up,” she grumbled, and Alana snapped her mouth shut.

 

Delilah finished her meal as well and took a small sip of her wine as she watched Alana glower at the carpet. Absently fiddling with her right earlobe, she sighed and set the half empty glass on the coffee table, nudging at the stem to slide it toward her sister. “You can finish that. I'll hold your hair when you barf.”

 

“Pff, I'm not that much of a lightweight, thanks you very much.”

 

“Uh-huh... Listen, today, I told Dr. Lecter about what happened at the studio.”

 

Alana paused mid-swig, then swallowed heavily and smacked her lips. “And...?”

 

“And, I just wanted you to know, I... I think I'm gonna be okay, okay?”

 

“Okay,” she repeated, eyeing her warily.

 

“I'm still not telling you about it,” Delilah muttered flatly.

 

“Then why the hell did you bring it up?”

 

Delilah sighed heavily and grabbed a pillow to fiddle with on her lap. “I brought it up because it was a _really_ good session today. What happened-... I-It's a touchy subject, you know, but I was able to talk about it with him. I didn't have any sort of episode, and I think that's a really good thing. It's progress, isn't it?”

 

Nodding pensively, Alana grabbed Delilah's glass and began nursing it with small sips. “Yeah, that's definitely progress...”

 

“In the spirit of being more communicative... I forgot to mention, Dr. Lecter said he can draw up some paperwork in the future, to get me out of your hair. I think that would be good for both of us.”

 

There was a long moment of silence before Alana whispered, “I'm just losin' everybody, aren't I?”

 

“Ohh no, drunky, nope. Stop that.” She sat up straight and shook her head firmly. “We're not throwing a pity party here. I just mean I think we'll get along better if we're not up each other's asses all the time.” They shared a snort of laughter and Delilah hastily added, “We've always been better at catch-up lunches and once-in-a-blue-moon type outings, y'know? This mushy living together nonsense just doesn't suit us.”

 

Alana tittered lightly and nodded in agreement before getting lost again and staring off into space.

 

Turning the TV to some mindless sitcom, Delilah gathered up the empty dishes and bottle, and ventured into the kitchen. Her mind wandered as she threw the bottle in the trash and began rinsing the bowls to put them in the dishwasher. Part of her wondered if Alana would even be okay living on her own again; though she knew _she_ was likely her biggest source of stress at the moment, Delilah feared coming home to an empty apartment might not be any better.

 

As she finished up cleaning the kitchen, she decided that she would find a way to contact Will Graham, in the hopes that she could at least get him and Alana on speaking terms again. She returned to the living room to find Alana fading fast, so she carefully helped the woman to her feet and ushered her to her bedroom.

 

“G'night, lush,” she teased, pulling the comforter up over her and making sure her phone was nearby, so she would hear her alarm in the morning.

 

“Eh, shaddap,” Alana grumbled into her pillow. She had only taken two steps away from the bed before obnoxious snoring filled the room. Delilah chuckled to herself and started for the door, but paused mid-step as an idea occurred to her.

 

Tiptoeing back over to her sister's bedside, she flipped Alana's phone face-up and observed the lock screen to find she had fingerprint identification enabled. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she cautiously peeled back the comforter and quickly pressed Alana's thumb to the little circle at the bottom of the screen. The phone unlocked at once and she ducked down to sit on the floor, sliding her own phone out of her pocket. She thumbed through Alana's contacts to find Will Graham's number and quickly keyed it into her phone, saving it as an unnamed contact before re-locking her sister's phone and gingerly placing it back on the table.

 

Stuffing her phone back into her pocket, she exited the room and shut the door behind herself, pacing back to the living room to turn off the television. As the screen faded to black, she had the overwhelming urge to turn and face the wall behind her. Slowly, she pivoted on her toes and stopped, glaring at the couch for what felt like ages and trying to will her eyes to move up.

 

' _He deserved it._ ' Hannibal's low voice sounded in her head, but he wasn't talking about Matt's head being cracked open. No, in this strange little fantasy of sorts, he was talking about someone else entirely. _'Pathetic excuse for a man...'_ Her eyes abruptly jumped upward, to the photos on the wall; she found a picture of her younger self and her mother first, and her lips twitched into an approximation of a smile. Scanning left, slowly, she found 18 year old Alana in a graduation cap and gown, her beaming smile bright enough to blind – and beside her, she found _him,_ Alana's father. Her stomach somersaulted and she quickly cast her eyes back down, hands twitching involuntarily.

 

In a haze, she suddenly scrambled up onto the couch and blindly began ripping every single photo off the wall. She tossed them all onto the cushions before dropping to the floor and cramming them all under the couch. With the wall completely bare, she then finally retreated to her room and collapsed onto her bed, quickly drifting off to sleep.

 

...

 

_Delilah found herself wandering away from a modest white farmhouse, dressed in nothing but a long, gray nightdress made of fine silk; though she felt the autumn leaves crumble under each step she took, her bare feet made no din._

 

_As she moved toward the thicket of trees that begged her near, a cold wind whipped at her back and she rounded to find the house filled to capacity with people – dozens upon dozens of people, all she knew or had known once – all screaming wordlessly and slamming their hands against the windows. Alana, Maggie, her mother, and Will Graham were the only ones that stood out; the three women clinging to each other and weeping, while Will simply shook his head and mouthed for her to come back as his fist repeatedly pounded against the glass._

 

_'But the woods are lovely, dark and deep,' she thought, turning away without further hesitation and continuing her path._

 

_The nearer she got to the woods, the warmer and thicker the air became – but she found it comforting rather than stifling._

_She looked down as she walked to find there were no leaves or ground anymore. A sea of what appeared to be red water was rushing just beneath her, and rising rapidly. It covered her feet up to her ankles and leeched into the ends of her nightdress, causing the fabric to stick to her legs._

 

_Not water..._

 

_Pausing just a foot from the entrance to the woods, she knelt down and dipped the tips of her fingers into the liquid, watching curiously as it coated her milky skin and slowly slithered down over her hand. Parting her lips, she placed a single fingertip on her tongue._

_Warm and sweet, with the slightest tang, it tasted of pomegranates and... something more._

_She rose and watched with fascination as the liquid stained her nightdress a deep ruby. It was beautiful, but suddenly quite cumbersome, and she peeled the straps off her shoulders to let it drop into the still rising liquid. The pomegranate sea was at her knees now, but it was bizarrely easy to wade through as she finally crossed over, into the woods._

 

_The red liquid washed away at once and her feet lay flat against a cool, dark hard wood floor. Puzzled, she looked around to find herself surrounded, not by trees, but an instantly familiar and elegantly decorated office._

 

_His breath was hot on her neck as a familiar set of strong arms suddenly wrapped around her naked body, yanking her back against his broad chest. Searing hands on skin, pushing and pulling, maneuvering her to his liking; his teeth bit into the flesh of her earlobe, but this time they didn't stop, and blood flowed freely over her neck and shoulder. More blood than one would expect from such a small wound, but there was no pain – only warmth. A warmth that understood and accepted._

 

_She leaned her head back against his shoulder as she felt his hands begin to roam her body, and she glanced down to find her porcelain skin littered with bloody smears and hand prints. He pulled away and she turned to find his face shrouded in darkness, his outstretched palms holding a single pomegranate that was split down the center._

 

_'A month per seed...' she heard herself whisper, her voice tinny and strange to her ears as she reached out to take it from his hands. 'What if I eat it all?'_

 

_A wicked chuckle filled the room and she looked down to find a mountain of bodies beneath them now – some in pieces and others whole – and though some distant part of her knew she was supposed to be afraid or disgusted, she found their entangled limbs and wide, glassy eyes rather mesmerizing._

 

_'Do you understand?' Hannibal asked, suddenly locking her in a tight embrace and stroking her hair as he purred in her ear. 'Just close your eyes, Delilah, and look...'_

 

…

 

Delilah woke abruptly with a strangled gasp, her eyes snapping open to find her room pitch black. She kicked the blanket off her legs and fished her phone out of her pocket to set it on the nightstand, glancing at the time to find she'd been asleep for barely thirty minutes – it seemed like hours had passed.

 

Wiping sweat-soaked hair out of her face, she opened up a note-taking app and began frantically thumbing every detail she could recall, while it was still fresh in her mind. When she finished, she tossed her phone onto the nightstand and touched gingerly at her earlobe; she of course found it still intact, and laughed at herself. “Just a dream, you idiot,” she whispered, pulling the covers up to her neck and snuggling back down into her pillows. Within moments, she was fast asleep again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7** _

_Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier's Residence_

_Baltimore, MD_

_Sunday – 1:00 PM_

_Click, click, click..._

Hannibal listened to high heels hitting solid wood flooring with cruel amusement, as Bedelia made her way over to answer the door. She wasn't expecting him today and, though he couldn't see her, he could perfectly imagine the flash of sheer panic in her eyes once she peered through the peephole to find him standing there.

 _'Honestly, Bedelia, it's midday. Surely I won't harm you, in your own home, on a Sunday...'_ He sneered internally and counted a solid thirty seconds of silence before lifting his arm to knock once more, but the deadbolt slid undone with a heavy _thunk_ and she slowly pulled the door open.

"Good afternoon, Hannibal," she greeted him quietly, and he was pleased that, for all her – admittedly warranted – paranoia, she still managed to be polite.

"Good afternoon," he replied, his tone conversational and light. "May I come in?"

She stalled by swallowing down a lump in her throat, as she visibly calculated her response. "...Of course," she finally said, tugging the door open further, as she stepped back to give him a wide berth.

Appearing entirely unfazed by her nervousness, he breezed past her and paused just beside his usual chair in her sitting room. He waited patiently as he listened to her slowly shut the door. Unsurprisingly, she didn't lock it.

_Click, click... Click, click, click._

Bedelia paused at the entryway and stared at him for a long moment, before reluctantly crossing the room to lower herself into the chair across from him. Once she was seated, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and casually sat himself down as well. The two were polar opposites, with Bedelia stick-straight, awkwardly resting her elbows on the arms of her chair and nervously tracing the curves of her ring fingernails with her thumbs – her entire demeanor oozing unease; whereas Hannibal seemed perfectly at home, with one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded loosely in his lap.

"I... wasn't expecting you," she said quietly.

"It's not as if we have proper session hours set aside, Bedelia."

"Yes, but you generally call first."

He shrugged and glanced out the window, watching the breeze whip the leaves from a maple tree beside her house. "I was in the neighborhood and I needed to talk," he said simply.

Dropping her palms to the arms of the chair, she cleared her throat and situated herself a bit less awkwardly. She crossed her legs and rested both her forearms on the left side of her seat. "You were just 'in the neighborhood,'" she repeated his words slowly, her eyes narrowing a fraction. She didn't believe him. "So, what is it you needed to discuss?" She continued, looking altogether unwilling to actually hear what he had to say.

"No, not discuss. I need to talk."

"With feedback, or shall I only listen?"

"You may interject as you deem necessary," he replied flippantly, and he sighed as she squinted at him again. She was deciding whether he truly meant that. "I'm not here for anything but a bit of talk therapy, Bedelia; you can lay down your arms."

"I can never do that around you. Not completely."

Hannibal smirked, her words a precise example of what made her so useful. She had once told him she believed he wore a 'person suit,' and she hadn't been wrong; the fact that she was shrewd enough to recognize it was the closest Hannibal felt anyone had come to truly understanding him – thus far, anyway. It was a little thing, rather inconsequential by all accounts, but it kept her pertinent for the time-being.

"Touche." His eyes drifted back to the shuddering maple just beyond the window, as he chewed delicately on the inside of his upper lip. "I've recently had a new patient imposed upon me, and I find myself... conflicted."

"Conflicted, how?"

"I find her, in a word, captivating," he said. "I have a strong suspicion that there is much, _much_ more to her than she allows others to see."

"A captivating, female patient leaves you conflicted..." She let her words linger, and he brought his gaze to her face to find her eyes tight with obvious concern.

Hannibal merely quirked a brow, choosing to feign ignorance. He couldn't very well read her mind, of course, but he was quite sure he could make a moderately accurate guess as to what she was thinking – _'poor little lamb has stumbled into the wolf's den.'_

"It is not uncommon for a professional – in any line of work, really – to suddenly find they have an... unbidden, blatantly unprofessional interest in a particular client," she said quietly. "I would go so far as to call it an unequivocal eventuality, even for you. This is a prime example of the usefulness of–"

"No," he cut in sharply, with a firm shake of his head.

"No?"

"My patient has placed her trust in me; I will not abandon her."

"A referral is not abandonment, Hannibal. If you find you cannot let go of this... fixation, it would be in the girl's best interest for you to find her another psychiatrist."

"I disagree."

Bedelia stared at him for a long moment, evidently puzzled. "Why did you come here if you have no interest in what I have to say?"

"It's not that I have no interest in your input. I simply disagree with your assessment of the situation."

"What _is_ the situation?"

Hannibal fell silent as he smoothed his palms together and studied the reflective surface of the glass coffee table to his left. An image of bijou, bright-eyed Delilah Bloom, drenched in blood and ruthlessly hacking a man to pieces, suddenly thrust itself to the forefront of his mind – and it was stunning.

The woman was inarguably impulsive, and moody, and evidently prone to reactionary behavior dictated by her feelings – but these were things they could work on, together. He had witnessed just how collected and poised she could be, when she felt she needed to be. Once he taught her to better keep her emotions in check, and helped her work through whatever her mind was punishing her for, he imagined her transformation would be breathtaking. Delilah Bloom was not a mere caterpillar, destined to become a butterfly – she was already a butterfly that would grow into something _so_ much more.

"This woman must be something," Bedelia muttered, the grim edge to her tone prying him from his reverie.

"Something, indeed." He tilted his head to the far right, stretching out his neck and listening to it crack as he cleared his throat. "I find I am... wanting to be more open, more myself, around her."

Bedelia let out a puff of mirthless laughter. "That must be exceedingly difficult for you."

"My _'person suit'_ has a snag, it seems."

"I wonder... will she unravel it entirely?"

They sat in silence for several long moments, before Bedelia cleared her throat and asked pointedly, "Has this gone past simple unprofessional intrigue, Hannibal?"

When his response was nothing more than a quirk of his brow, she sucked in a breath and shifted in her seat. Her professionalism was ingrained, and he had a feeling she was at war with herself over whether she should report him for misconduct.

_'Or perhaps she wishes to pry the lamb from the wolf's maw.'_

"Not in the way you seem to be thinking," he finally replied, his lips twisting into a contemptuous smile. "Don't tell me you're jealous, Bedelia."

"Of all the words at our disposal, that could be used to describe what I am," she began cautiously. " _That_... is not one I would choose."

His grin fell at once and he ran his tongue along his upper teeth as he regarded her. "You are afraid for her."

Bedelia lifted her chin a fraction, but made no move to confirm or negate his theory; he could hear the wheels turning in her head, and his nostrils flared in temper.

"I am going to make this simple for you, Bedelia," he began, his voice deathly quiet as he leaned forward in his seat and looked her square in the eye. "Whatever it is you're thinking of trying – _don't_."

"I am not going to _try_ anything," she whispered.

"A lie of omission is still a lie," he clipped, rising from his seat. "And I shouldn't need to say, but I won't tolerate it from you. Have a pleasant day, Bedelia."

Hannibal saw himself out at once, choosing to leave the door ajar rather than slam it shut, and swiftly paced back to his car. He glanced up just in time to catch her peeking out at him from around the door – which she then quickly snapped shut and, he imagined, locked as fast as her bony little fingers would allow. The car rumbled to life at his turn of the key and he scowled at the dash, noting by the clock that he had wasted nearly twenty minutes with her –

No, not wasted. Though the visit had undoubtedly tested his patience, it had been more beneficial than Bedelia would ever possibly know – more than he had initially allowed himself to realize. In the forty-odd hours since he'd kissed Delilah Bloom, he had argued endlessly with himself over whether or not he had made a conscious decision, or had simply acted in the heat of the moment. Speaking aloud about Delilah, however cautious he may have been with the details, had solidified in his mind that he did indeed know what he was doing. Errant sparks of impulsivity were inherently human and he was, after all, still human.

Folding his palm over his mouth, he leaned back against the headrest and stared up at the roof of the car. He knew that, in time, Bedelia would try to somehow find Delilah, to foolishly warn her of all she presumed to know about him. And though he knew the woman would have scarce little to say that could frighten Delilah off – operating as she was, on assumptions alone – on the off-chance she succeeded, he would kill her for it.

Until then, however, Hannibal had a full Rolodex at home calling his name.

 

* * *

 

_Paradise Café_

_1210 Olive St., Baltimore, MD_

_Monday – 4:50 PM_

"If you leave, _where_ will you go?"

Delilah fought not to scowl. Alana had been dealing with work-related emergencies all weekend, and they hadn't had a chance to talk since their wine-soaked conversation Friday night; evidently, she was intent on making up for lost time by nagging her at every opportunity today, and it was terribly irritating.

"Like I told you this morning, I'll figure it out."

"That's not good enough." Alana crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her, looking altogether like a perturbed mother figure; not _their_ mother, perhaps, but Delilah was fairly certain she looked like someone's mother just then. "You need to have a plan."

"Well, I'dunno..." Delilah sighed, feigning contemplation. "I suppose I could just find a nice box and set up camp on some street corner... Pop out occasionally and scare the neighbor children. Could be fun."

"Hilarious," Alana grumbled, clearly not amused.

She snickered as she began pouring milk and foam over the espresso cradled in her hand. "Keep pestering me while I make you a free coffee, and I'll turn your fancy latte leaf into a big ol' dick."

"She's gotten real good at those!" Maggie hollered, sticking her tongue out as she tossed them a wink. "I think she's been studying."

"What is she talking about?"

Before Delilah could intervene, Maggie nudged her out of the way and leaned over the counter to whisper at her sister. "I'm talking about that six-foot hunk'a somethin' or other; the doctor that picked her up last week."

Alana blinked at her, her lips twisting into a frown as she looked to Delilah. "Hannibal... picked you up?"

"I was going to be late, so... yeah, he gave me a ride – " She caught Maggie opening her mouth to most likely say something untoward, and hastily added, "In his car! He just drove me to my appointment, _Maggie._ "

"Uh-huh..."

Delilah groaned, hoping her cheeks weren't as red as they felt, and shoved past her to hand the cup over to her sister. "Just ignore the old bat. She's senile."

Alana snorted and took the mug, eyeing them suspiciously before wandering off to sit at a table by the window. Delilah watched her pull a laptop from her messenger bag, and waited for her to start working before she rounded on Maggie and swatted her with a hand towel.

"Jesus Christ! Would you keep your dirty thoughts to yourself?" she hissed, stuffing the towel into the pocket of her apron and angrily setting about cleaning up.

"Sheesh, sorry..."

Delilah let out a huff and shoved her hair out of her face. "Listen. Hannibal Lecter is my psychiatrist – nothing more. If you keep making comments like this someone is going to suspect something and he could potentially get into serious trouble. And he's the first decent doctor I've had, so just... just don't, okay?"

"Alright, sweetie, I'm sorry."

She sighed heavily and gave Maggie a sideways hug. "It's fine."

...

When the stragglers had finally gone and the cleaning was through, it was half past five and Delilah flopped down into the seat across from Alana to stretch out her aching legs.

"So... Where will you go?" Alana asked again, her eyes glued to whatever it was she was working on.

Delilah sighed and scrubbed a hand over her face. "Maggie offered for me to live upstairs," she finally confessed, watching her sister freeze for a moment before furiously clicking away at her keyboard again.

"That's... convenient," she muttered, suddenly snapping her laptop shut and knocking back the last dregs of her latte. "Most of your stuff's already here."

"Mhm. I think it would be good for us to live apart."

"You've said that already."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

Maggie, who had blatantly been eavesdropping, decided to insert herself into their conversation as she shuffled over to take Alana's mug. "I can promise you she'll be safe here, Doctor Bloom. It's a damn fine apartment up there; my husband fixed it up himself."

"It's not exactly shoddy carpentry I'm worried about," Alana mumbled, and Delilah frowned at her. Before she could ask her to elaborate, Alana cleared her throat and smiled up at Maggie. "Did your husband build the apartment?"

"Oh, hell no, my Bobby was never _that_ handy, but he knew a thing or two in his day." She laughed and pulled up a chair, resting the cup in her lap as she stared wistfully up at the ceiling. "When we got this place from his parents – willed, you know – it was a two bedroom, and one'a the rooms was tiny as shit, so he knocked the wall down to make it one big master bedroom; added some nice fixtures and fresh paint and such. We lived up there for a few years ourselves before his practice finally took off."

"Practice? He's a lawyer?"

"Was a lawyer," she corrected. "Heart attack, a couple years ago."

Alana opened her mouth to presumably apologize, but Maggie silenced her with a wave. "Death is just a part of life, sweetie, don't fuss. At any rate, it's a swell place. There's a gorgeous bathroom up there, great lighting, and even a walk-in closet."

"Sounds like a great fit," Alana said, smirking at her sister. "This one hoards shoes like it's her job, and takes about five hours to get ready to go _anywhere_."

"Oh, I believe it."

Delilah rolled her eyes as they shared a laugh at her expense. "Are you two harpies done talking about me like I'm not here?"

"Yeah, yeah," Maggie gave her knee a firm pat, then used her as leverage to stand. "Well, let me know what you girls decide, when you do. I'm off."

"Night Maggie, we won't stay long."

They watched her deposit the cup in the dishwasher, then grab her bag before tossing them a wave as she exited the café.

"...Doesn't anybody else work here?" Alana asked as she gathered her things.

"Well, one girl quit and the other keeps calling in sick," she replied, stretching and yawning as she stood up. "Supposedly she'll be in later this week, but who knows."

"I don't like you working so much. It can't be good for you."

Delilah snorted as she snagged her purse and they headed for the door. "Oh please, I could say the same to you."

"Fair enough – oh, I almost forgot." They paused just outside the café as Alana began rifling through her messenger bag. "Dr. Lecter invited us to dinner next weekend," she explained, fishing out a small cream-coloured envelope and handing it over.

_Delilah Eleanor Bloom_

Her full name was written across the face of the envelope in strikingly beautiful script; she ran her fingers along the swooping black letters, feeling the gentle indents in the parchment that indicated it wasn't printed. "Damn," she muttered, turning it over and carefully sliding her fingernail along the edge to break the seal. Inside was a stark white square of sturdy cotton card stock, tastefully embellished with an Art-Deco-style, silver foil border. The note itself was handwritten, as well, with Hannibal's address expertly penned in the center, along with the date and time of the event:

_6 Midvale Court, Roland Park_

_22 October 2017_

_Sunday – 6:30 PM_

And it could be called nothing else but an event, upon seeing such a formal invitation.

"If you think that's ridiculous," she heard her sister mumble, "just wait until you see the spread – excuse me, the ' _feast_.'" She looked up to find Alana making a show of rolling her eyes, and she scowled slightly.

"I think it's nice," Delilah replied defensively, carefully tucking the invitation into her purse. "No one ever does this sort of thing anymore."

"Yeah, there's a reason for that – it's called group texting, or email."

Delilah scoffed as she locked up the café, and they started down the street toward Alana's car. "I can't imagine Dr. Lecter sending a text, at all, let alone a _group text._ "

"Ha, true."

They hopped into the hybrid and buckled their seat belts as Alana pulled out into the street, and Delilah eyed her sideways for a moment. "Now that I think about it," she began tentatively, "I remember Will mentioning something about Dr. Lecter having a penchant for throwing dinner parties... He said they're supposed to be really impressive, or something."

Alana's lips pursed into a tight line and she simply nodded once, switching the radio on and filling the cabin with some sort of kitschy pop music as she made a left turn, effectively bringing their conversation to an end.

 

* * *

 

_No. 107_

_Herb-Marinated Rack of Lamb _

_Ingredients_

_2 Racks of lamb, frenched_

_Marinade_

_¼ cup olive oil, plus 2 tbsp_

_4 garlic cloves, crushed_

_1 tbsp ea. fresh thyme & rosemary leaves, lightly crushed_

___2 bay leaves_ _ _

_Maldon sea salt_

_Freshly ground black pepper_

_Method _

_Combine ¼ cup olive oil, garlic, bay leaves, rosemary & thyme in a large bowl. Add lamb, and coat well. Grind black pepper over all, seal with clingfilm, and place in the refrigerator to marinate overnight._

_Remove lamb from the marinade and preheat oven to 400 degrees. Heat a large saute pan over medium-high and add remaining 2 tbsp olive oil. Season well with salt, and sear fat side down. Turn fat side up and roast in preheated oven for 20 mins. Let rest for 10 mins before cutting and serving._

* * *

_Tuesday_

**_/BREAKING NEWS:/_ **

**_"Baltimore PD is currently investigating a death at Sandy Point State Park, near the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. At approximately 5 AM this morning, a nineteen-year-old woman stumbled across the body of an as yet unidentified male while out jogging on the south side of the park. No word on cause of death. Stay tuned to WBALTV-11 News for further update."_ **

* * *

_No. 63_

_Beef Heart Tartare_

_Ingredients _

_1 beef heart, trimmed  
_

_3 egg yolks_

_1 cornichon, chopped_

_1 tsp salted capers, rinsed_

_1 red bird's eye chili, seeded and thinly sliced_

_1 tbsp red onion, finely diced_

_Maldon sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste_

_Grilled baguette crostini_

_Method_

_Thinly slice and chop heart until fine. Gently stir in egg yolks, cornichon, capers, chili and onion. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve immediately with crostini and a dish of extra sea salt._

* * *

_Wednesday_

**_/WBALTV-11 BREAKING NEWS UPDATE:/_ **

**" _Our top story this morning is pretty darn gruesome – if there are any children present, now would be the time to send them out of the room. Just yesterday, we told you that the body of a man was found in Sandy Point State Park and, as it turns out, there appears to be a lot more to the story. We have Jim on-location where a SECOND body was found less than an hour ago. On to you, Jim."_**

**" _Thanks Dave. Baltimore PD has just issued a statement urging everyone to stay away from Sandy Point for the time-being, as this is now an ongoing homicide investigation. The victim from Monday was found strung up in a tree, just a few feet from where I'm standing right now."_**

**" _Wow."_**

**" _Yeah, and it gets worse. There's talk that the FBI is getting involved. Our sources say that the woman discovered today appears to have been killed by the same person, or persons. Both were hung in the same fashion and PARTS were surgically removed, postmortem – no word on which parts exactly, but we do know that none have been found so far."_**

**" _Gosh, Jim. Sure sounds like we may have another serial killer on the loose..."_**

* * *

 

_Paradise Café_

Thursday – 5:59 AM

 

With the café all set up for any early bird patrons jonesing for a caffeine fix, Delilah flipped the front door sign over to read ' _Open, please come on in!_ ' and leaned heavily against the door to let out an obnoxiously loud yawn.

"Don't you start that," Maggie griped, setting two large mugs of freshly brewed black coffee on a nearby table before settling into one of two overstuffed armchairs by the 'library,' as she called it. In reality, it was just one tiny bookshelf in the corner full of battered old paperback novels and severely outdated magazines that she refused to throw away.

Delilah apologized around another yawn, which she attempted and failed to stifle, as she dragged herself over to the chair catercorner to Maggie's; she then snagged one of the mugs and sat down, carefully folding her legs under herself to hunch over her coffee and glare at it.

"...Did that particular cup sass you or somethin'?"

"S'too hot to drink yet," she grumbled. " _Why_ am I here so early again – where the hell is Britney?"

Maggie snorted and began flipping through one of the magazines. "She called last night and said she'd be in later today. Some kinda stomach bug kicked her ass for a bit there, but she said she's better now."

"If she's better now, why didn't she come in when she was supposed to?"

The older woman merely shrugged and Delilah rolled her eyes. "Maggie, I love you, but you can be really naive sometimes."

...

Their first customer entered at a quarter past six, and from then on there was a steady trickle of patrons until Delilah took her first break at ten. On the whole, it was shaping up to be a fairly calm day so far, but constantly needing to wake up at four am just to get to work on time was taking its toll on her. She was both relieved and annoyed when Britney showed up, just as she was stepping out back to get some fresh air.

"Hey girl!" Britney shouted, the bottle-blonde straw she called hair flopping around her face as she skipped merrily up the walk.

Funny, she sure didn't look like she'd been deathly ill; her usual fake orange tan was much more naturally golden today, and Delilah thought she counted an extra piercing in each of her ears.

Delilah grunted in response and pulled out her phone in an effort to look distracted.

"So... How's it goin'?"

Resisting her initial compulsion to tear the girl a new one for being an immature and lazy piece of shit, she forced a smile and shrugged. "It's going. How are your lungs?"

Britney suddenly let out an awkward, exaggerated cough and patted her chest. "Still a little congested, but not too bad..."

"Oh, that's interesting," she said snidely. "Seeing as you claimed you had a stomach bug."

The girl blanched and stared at her for a long moment, looking much like a toddler caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "...Okay, listen. Can I, like, confess something to you?"

' _Here it comes,_ ' Delilah thought irritably, quirking a brow and flapping a hand at her as if to say, ' _if you must._ '

"I wasn't _actually_ sick, technically..."

"Colour me surprised."

"Thing is, my boyfriend wanted to go to Florida, for a concert, you know? And it was totally supposed to be during my days off, I swear – but when we landed it turned out it was this big birthday surprise, and he had all this stuff planned and... Well, we just got back this morning. That's why I'm here so late."

"Well, that's fucking stupid," Delilah replied flatly. "If you'd just told Maggie the truth, you know damn well she would have been fine with it; you didn't have to tell some bullshit story that actually made people worry about you."

"...I guess, but-"

"No. I don't want to hear it," she snapped, slamming a fist into the door and holding it open for her. "Just get in there and attempt to be useful. I need to make a call, and my break is almost over."

The girl's jaw dropped and she floundered for a moment, clearly dumbfounded, before hanging her head and trudging into the café.

Delilah scoffed and glared after her, shaking her head as the door swung shut and turning away to focus on her phone. Her thumb hovered over the single contact she had listed as a number rather than a name, and she only hesitated for a split second before tapping the screen and lifting the phone to her ear.

It rang twice before Will Graham's puzzled voice filtered through the speaker. "Uh, h-hello?"

"...Is your refrigerator running?"

"Wha-? Who is this?" He demanded, his confusion rapidly twisting into irritation. "How did you get this number?"

"Did you have pizza this morning?"

Silence perforated the call and she almost worried they'd been disconnected, when he finally replied, "...Delilah?"

"Yep." She snorted and began absentmindedly pacing the walkway. "I broke into my sister's phone with her own thumb while she was passed out and I stole your number. Guess I'm a criminal now, or something."

Will laughed. "Or something... Wow, my very own stalker. This is new."

"Don't flatter yourself, Graham, you're not my type."

"What do you want, Bloom? I have another lecture in about five minutes."

Delilah chewed on her lip as she thought a moment. Gathering the nerve to call him was about as far as she'd gotten in the way of planning – honestly, she hadn't even expected him to answer the phone. "Uh, well... I thought maybe you could come visit me at work and I can treat you to a coffee and some sort of baked good, as an apology –"

"You have nothing to apologize for," he cut in firmly. She opened her mouth to argue when he continued. "But I do like coffee. And baked goods... Do you have cake?"

"We have cake, yes. Also pie, cookies, danishes... Most of it's freshly baked – not the danishes or cookies, though. Those are from Costco."

"Alright, I'm sold."

"Sweet. I work at a place called Paradise Café – twelve-ten Olive street. Looks like the sun threw up on it, so it's hard to miss."

"Ha, alright. My last class ends at two today, and it'll take me about half an hour to get over there... Is that a good time? Or did you mean tomorrow, or –"

Delilah cut him off with a laugh. "Two-thirty-ish is fine, spaz. See you then."

"Later."

 

* * *

 

Approximately five miles east of _Paradise_ , in a quiet residential neighborhood, the last in a series of three entirely premeditated killings would soon come to fruition, as a man named Matthew Nelson arrived home from taking his dog to the park. He found the front door unlocked, and cursed under his breath about the good-for-nothing bitch – his ex-wife – whom he assumed had come by to grab more of her things, as he let his mastiff off her lead. The huge, slobbering creature began snorting and sniffing the air excitedly, and Matthew watched in confusion as she suddenly went barreling out of the foyer and into the kitchen. He set the lead on the table by the door, locking it behind himself and kicking off his shoes before following her as he distractedly rifled through his mail.

"What are you up to, you dumb old dog?"

Confusion lingered, as he entered the kitchen and glanced up just enough to find his dog happily scarfing down what appeared to be a pile of freshly cooked steak on the tile floor... directly beside a set of plastic-covered, black leather oxfords.

The fear came next, like a sharp jolt to his insides that instantly made him nauseated, as his eyes jerked upward to observe the presence of a man he didn't recognize standing beside the kitchen island; the stranger was dressed in a strikingly bold and, he guessed, stupidly expensive three-piece suit – which was covered from ankles, to neck, to wrists in a bizarre second suit that appeared to be made of plastic. The man had his gloved hands folded in front of himself, with a rope dangling from his fingertips and a disturbingly serene expression on his face.

"Dogs are such simple creatures, aren't they? So easily won over by food," the stranger mused in an accent he couldn't place. "Good morning, Matthew."

When he couldn't find words to respond, the stranger smirked and took a few jarringly quick steps toward him. Matthew dropped the letters and adverts from his shaking hands as he stumbled backward, into the fridge. "Wh-wh-uh, what do you-... How-... _Who are you?_ " He finally managed, watching nervously as the man continued to advance on him.

The stranger paused a couple feet before him and canted his head. "Does it really matter?"

"M-my wife will be home any minute, you know," he lied hastily.

"Wife, you say?" The man pursed his lips and squinted off to the side, as if trying to remember something. "Ah, yes... The woman you treat like so much garbage – that chose to leave you two days ago – and would rather raise her child alone than suffer your abuse... _That wife_?"

Matthew thought to be indignant – it wasn't like he actually _beat_ her, or anything – but he couldn't exactly argue semantics with an intruder. He glared over at the dog, wishing he'd chosen a doberman or something, as he muttered, "Er... Yes. Sh-she's-... We're working it out, okay? She'll be home any –"

"You're lying, Matthew." The man tutted softly, looking down as he busied himself with tightening the slack on the rope in his hands; the fact that this man felt confident enough in himself to take his eyes off him, while clearly getting ready to kill him, was utterly terrifying.

"P-Please, if this is about Eliza – I'll apologize to her. I can treat her better, I swear!"

"Doubtful. That's not why I'm here, anyway."

"Then why..."

The man looked him square in the eye and said simply, "Your heart, Matthew, I'd like to eat it. As a nice tartare, I think."

All the blood drained from his face at the stranger's words, but something about the factual tone of his voice finally propelled Matthew into taking action. Swinging wildly, he attempted to whack the man in the face, and caught nothing but air before turning and hurling himself back out the direction he'd come in. He slipped on the papers that littered the floor and smacked his head hard on the wall, sliding down to the tile as the room spun around him.

A chuckle sounded behind him and the man asked conversationally, "Another head wound?"

Before he could fully gather his bearings and attempt to stand, the stranger was upon him and he felt himself being dragged upward as the nylon rope was swiftly wrapped around his neck. His hands instinctively reached up to claw at the rope, but it was already too taut for him to get his fingers under. Panic flooded his system as he began thrashing frantically, his feet slipping every which way beneath him.

"That's fine, Matthew," he heard the man speak calmly, as his vision rapidly blurred and darkened. "The harder you struggle, the quicker this will go."

When Matthew finally stopped flapping around, Hannibal eased him face down onto the floor and rested a knee in the center of his back, keeping a tight hold on the garrotte and settling in to wait for several minutes longer – just to be sure he had passed. As he waited patiently for the man's brain to cease functioning, the mastiff wandered up to flop down at his right and stare at him. He peered back at the massive creature with wry amusement. "You really are a dumb old dog, aren't you?"

After five minutes had gone by, he let the rope fall around Matthew's head and fetched his standard black bag from the counter. He quickly set about flipping the man over and taking scissors to his shirt, before carving his chest open and peeling back the layers. Checking the time on his watch, he noted he had about two hours before his next patient would expect him at the office, and wasted no time removing and unraveling the man's intestines.

Laying them in two piles on the other side of the corpse, he shooed the dog away from investigating them and fished around under the man's ribs to find his spleen. "Here," he said, quickly slicing it away from the stomach before snipping it into bits and scattering them around the kitchen for the dog to find. With the animal distracted, he took the no-nonsense approach of cutting straight through the ribs to peel back the breastplate; he left it resting unceremoniously against the man's cheek, then took up a scalpel and set about harvesting the heart with consummate efficiency.

Placing the organ in a small ice chest, he rose and stretched his back out a bit as he deliberated on what to do with the body. He had decorated the park with the last two purely out of theatrical convenience and, though Matthew did have a sturdy-looking elm tree out front, he didn't particularly care for the idea of dragging him out in broad daylight just to string him up.

"I think you would be best left to the dog, anyway," he muttered, watching the great horse of a canine amble over, as if on cue. It began snuffling around in the open cavity, and Hannibal's shoulders shook as he laughed, giving the dog a pat before gathering his tools and depositing them in his bag. Setting the ice box inside as well, he snapped it shut and swiftly exited out the back door.

As it was mid-morning on a Thursday, the neighborhood was pleasantly empty, and Hannibal encountered no potential loose ends that would need tying up. He was still cautious and alert as always, however, as he went about his usual routine of systematically removing the evidence from his person and stowing it all away in the black leather bag he carried. When he arrived at his Bentley, several blocks down the road, he peeled the last bits of plastic from his shoes and stuffed them into the bag as well, gingerly setting it in the trunk.

A quick glance at the dash told him he had another full hour before he needed to be back at the office, so he headed home first, to clean and store Matthew's heart in preparation for the impending dinner party.

* * *

_**911 Call Transcript** _

_Incident number: 09-555006_

_October 19, 2017_

_Time: 1:31:07_

_**Operator:** 911, what's the address of your emergency?_

_**Caller:** (Inaudible, sobbing)_

_**Operator:** Ma'am? Hello?_

_**Caller:** I just (inaudible) things. (inaudible) Dead. He's. Everywhere. (inaudible) Eating him._

_**Operator:** I'm sorry, what? Someone is eating someone?_

_**Caller:** The dog._

_**Operator:** Someone is eating a dog?_

_**Caller:** No! The dog is eating him!_

_**Operator:** Ma'am, uh, who? Who is the dog eating?_

_**Caller:** My husband. My. Ex. Oh god, oh god, oh god. (Inaudible)_

_**Operator:** Ma'am, I need an address please._

_**Caller:** Rappolla Street._

_**Operator:** And the number of the house, ma'am?_

_**Caller:** I can't remember. I. I'm going outside._

_**Operator:** OK, that's fine ma'am. I'm dispatching units to you right now. Just stay on the line with me, alright?_

_**Caller:** OK. OK, oh god (inaudible) I just –_

_**Operator:** Ma'am, did you see anybody else in or around the house?_

_**Caller:** No._

_**Operator:** OK, can I get your name while we wait for police to arrive?_

_**Caller:** Eliza. Elizabeth Nelson._

 

* * *

 

_Paradise Café_

_– 2:40 PM_

 

After lunch, the traffic in and around the café had kicked up exponentially. Nearly every seat was full and Delilah was sequestered behind the counter, methodically churning out lattes and macchiatos, while Britney did the running around for a change. Aside from the gnawing frustration of having to cater to all the little moronic alterations people insisted on giving their coffees, she didn't really mind it much – at least she didn't have to deal with customers face-to-face, or schlep back and forth at the same time.

As she was steeping an Earl Grey tea bag for some pretentious asshole's London Fog, Britney came bustling up to the counter with a large black coffee in her hands. "Holy shit, when did this place get so popular? Hey, that guy said there's something wrong with this again..."

Delilah chucked the tea bag into the trash before adding a splash of vanilla to the cup and sloshing steamed milk over it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Nope. He says it's too cold now."

After quickly sopping up the mess around the London Fog, she switched mugs with Britney and stormed around the counter. "Table seven," she heard the woman call after her. "The dude with the floppy brown hair."

"It's just a goddamn cup of drip coffee, for fuck's sake... First it's too bitter, then it's too hot," she grumbled, first under her breath and progressively getting louder as she approached the table. "Now listen here, Goldilocks –"

Delilah's words died in her throat as a familiar, scruffy face turned to grin mischievously up at her.

"You son of a bitch," she said, unable to stop herself from smiling as she slammed Will's cup down in front of him. It spilled over the rim and he jerked backward with a yelp as he laughed.

"Uh, can I speak to your manager? This is no way to treat paying customers."

"You aren't supposed to be paying anyway, you dink!"

Will snickered as she ripped a hand towel out of her apron pocket and threw it at him, catching it and cleaning up the mess as she sat down opposite him.

"You look awful," she said flatly, studying the dark circles under his eyes.

"That's the general consensus," he muttered, setting the coffee stained towel down on the table and eyeing the copious patrons around them with obvious discomfort. "I... haven't been sleeping very well."

"Or at all, by the looks of you."

Will let out a halfhearted chuckle before frowning down at his coffee. "You're not wrong."

She watched him chew on the inside corner of his mouth for a moment, before she stood again and gave him a pat on the arm. "Let me get you that cake, yeah? Maybe a bit of sugar will do you some good."

"Sure, thanks."

"We have chocolate and carrot." His nose crinkled at the latter, and she laughed. "Chocolate it is."

As she turned to fetch him a slice of cake, she caught sight of an open laptop in the center of a nearby table, being watched by two college students with rapt attention. She wouldn't have thought twice if the screen weren't showing the local news, rather than some stupid television show, but she figured it must be important if they were so invested and wandered the few feet away from Will to listen in.

" _...woman, who's name is being withheld while investigations continue, frantically called 911 after she entered the house just behind me and found her ex husband mutilated in the kitchen. No official word on whether this is connected to the two other bodies that were discovered just earlier this week, but sources say..."_

"Hey, isn't that your dad?" One of the students poked his finger against the screen, at the image of an officer milling around in the background.

Another, a redhead, nodded vigorously, swallowing down a mouthful of tea before responding. "Yeah dude, he's been dealing with this shit all week. He called my cell before I got here and reminded me for, like, the billionth time not to go anywhere alone. I guess it's pretty serious."

"Got any gory details?"

"Well, I'm not really supposed to say, but... technically he wasn't supposed to tell me, either..."

The other shut the laptop and scooted in close, as Delilah stayed frozen behind them.

"It's super gross, but remember you asked for it," the officer's son warned. "So, first they found that dead dude in the park, right? Turns out he was totally gutted and hung from a tree _by his insides._ "

"Ew, what? Can you even hang someone by their... y'know...?"

"I mean, he also used a rope. But, whatever, it's still gross. Anyway, the next day, they found a woman done the same way. She was a nurse from all the way over in Reston, Virginia. Weird, right?"

"Super weird."

"That's not even the worst part, man. Dad told me that all the bodies, including the one they found today, had _parts_ removed – like, after they were killed, whoever did it took stuff."

"Dude, I've been reading up on that one serial killer – I don't remember what they call him, but it's been forever and they still haven't found him. He took stuff. Maybe it's that guy."

"Maybe... So far, the only thing he can see tying them together is that they all had their hearts removed."

Delilah blinked rapidly as the scene around her shifted; the sunny yellow décor morphed into actual, harsh sunlight, and she squinted against it, looking down to find her once empty hands holding something wrapped in several plastic bags. "No, no, mm-mm," she mumbled, hands shaking violently as she began tearing at it.

As bits of plastic fell and floated away, she vaguely thought she heard someone, somewhere, calling her name; she ignored it, unable to peel her eyes away from her hands, as what appeared to be a hunk of meat steadily came into view.

_A heart –_

_A human heart._

_Of course it was human._

"Not mine," she whispered. "It's okay... Doesn't need it, now; never really used it..."

The lump of flesh made a squelching _thump,_ as she tipped it over onto her palm and let the last bit of plastic drop to the ground. She smoothed her hands over it, momentarily fascinated by how warm it still was, and how it looked nothing at all like the hearts everyone drew around their crushes' names in grade school. It was just meat, and fat, and sinew. She wondered what it would taste like –

"No. Put it in the ground," Delilah told herself, glancing up to seek out a proper space off the side of the road. It had to be somewhere no one would find, giving the local fauna a chance to dispose of it, but she didn't want to dawdle. What would someone think, to find a twenty-something woman standing by the road with a bloody heart in her hands?

Susquehanna State Park was just a few miles away; she could find a nice spot to bury it, or perhaps dump it in the river...

Something bumped her arm and she cried out, whipping around and searching frantically, only to find nothing but the hazy, empty street. She thought she heard her name yet again and her eyes darted about, but still she saw no one.

Deciding it was just the wind, she ventured forward and had only taken half a step before she was suddenly there, in the park, staring at the river.

_Thump-thump... Thump-thump..._

Puzzled, her brow knitted as she peered down at the mass of flesh still nestled in her palms and was startled to find it was suddenly beating again. Blood began gushing from the ventricles, spraying her clean clothes. "No, no, nonono –" She let out a horrified shriek and chucked the heart as far as her arms would allow, then turned and started to run.

At once, she slammed face-first into something both firm and yielding at the same time; something warm, that smelled of cedar and sage...

"Shh, Delilah, it's alright," she heard a familiar voice, low and soothing. Strong hands were holding her arms and she blinked rapidly to find a red, paisley tie directly in her line of sight.

"D-Doctor Lecter?" She croaked, her throat raw from screaming.

"Yes, good," he murmured, bringing a hand to her face and tilting her head to either side as he studied her eyes. "Do you know where you are?"

"I..." She tried to look around, to remind herself, but he held her head firmly in place.

"No. Eyes on me, Delilah," he commanded, and she focused on his mouth as he asked calmly, "Where were you, just now?"

"The... river." She cleared her throat and winced, glancing past him and finding the familiar light fixtures of the café. "It was just in my head," she muttered, looking back to his face.

"What were you doing before you came to be at a river?"

"I... I don't remember," she replied honestly.

Hannibal chewed his lip a moment before he released her face and pressed two fingers to her throat, checking her pulse and finally giving her a chance to survey her surroundings. The café was empty now, save for three people huddled around a table to her right. Maggie, Britney, and Will were all staring at her – the two females looking utterly terrified, while Will just seemed incredibly uncomfortable.

 _'Of course he's uncomfortable,'_ she thought while stifling a yawn, _'this is the second time you've gone off your rocker around him.'_ She frowned then, realizing she'd forced Maggie to close the café early – though, to be fair, the woman was known for keeping the place open late, or closing it on a whim as early as she pleased; but on top of that, she'd never even had the chance to try playing matchmaker with Will and her sister.

She wished she could remember what had brought it on, but the harder she thought about it the quicker it slipped away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the group. A chorus of 'no's and 'don't you dare' sounded at once and she smiled sadly at them, before looking back up to Hannibal; he had already finished checking her pulse at some point, and was now merely studying her.

Delilah swayed on her feet as she tried in vain to tamp down another yawn, but he caught her around the middle and began silently guiding her out of the building. She leaned heavily against him, her feet dragging on the concrete as her eyelids fluttered shut.

"Ah-ah, not yet," he murmured, giving her a nudge. She forced her eyes open and found they were outside now, his black Bentley just a few car lengths down the road. "Don't make me carry you."

Her lips twisted into a sleepy grin. "I wouldn't mind..."

"Behave yourself," he chided, though she could swear she heard a hint of a smile in his tone as well.

After a slow and arduous trek, she finally fell into the passenger's side of his car, and watched lazily as he leaned over her to put the key in the ignition and turn on the heater. His face passed less than an inch from hers as he slowly ducked back out of the car, and she leaned up to catch his lips – but his hand landed square in the center of her chest, keeping her pressed against the seat.

"We have an audience," he said, as he busied himself with fastening her seat belt for her and dutifully ignored her pouting.

When he backed fully out of the car and shut the door, her head lolled to the side to find Will and Maggie standing on the sidewalk. Their concerned and nervous gazes, as Hannibal stepped up to speak with them, were the last thing she saw before she settled into the plush leather seat and fell fast asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

_ **Chapter 8** _

 

As Hannibal stepped up to the sidewalk to join Will and Maggie, he glanced back over his shoulder to observe Delilah fast asleep in the passenger seat of his car. He smirked at how positively angelic she seemed, with her halo of pale curls framing her cheeks of milk and rose – she looked as though she could hardly hurt a fly, but he knew otherwise.

 

When he turned to face the nervous pair, Will opened his mouth at once and he held up a hand to stifle him. “First, I must ask you, Mrs. Cartwright,” he leaned slightly nearer to Maggie, affecting a concerned gaze. “Are you alright?”

 

Maggie's eyes were glued to Delilah as she jerkily nodded her head, clutching onto Delilah's purse in her arms. “Y-Yes, but is she...?”

 

“Trust that Miss Bloom will be fine. Dissociative episodes, in any capacity, are an incredibly difficult burden for the mind to bear; as she seems to have such extreme hallucinations, it's a testament to her personal strength that she didn't collapse in the middle of your café.”

 

“...He means don't worry,” Will muttered, and Hannibal shot him a look before smiling back at Maggie.

 

“Yes. Though, I would venture a guess you will worry about her no matter what I say.”

 

Maggie let out a small, sniffling laugh and nodded as she finally pried her eyes away from the sleeping woman. “That's the worst one I've seen,” she whispered thickly. “She's gotten lost a time or two... but I've never, _ever_ heard her scream like that before.” She shuddered and Hannibal put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

 

“She will sleep, she will wake refreshed, and she will be back to work tomorrow morning.”

 

The woman shook her head at once. “No, I want her to take a few days off – hell, a week.” She handed him Delilah's bag, which he took without hesitation. “You tell her that, alright? She's stubborn, but I think she'll listen to you.”

 

“I will be sure to insist.”

 

Maggie gave him a halfhearted smile and patted his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter. And thank you, too,” she added, turning to Will, “for getting everyone out and all that.”

 

“No problem,” he replied, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck.

 

Hannibal watched the woman take her time walking back to the café, and waited until she was inside to turn his attention to Will. “You don't need to tell me you didn't do anything,” he said before Will could even open his mouth. “I know you didn't. Tell me what did happen.”

 

The younger male took a deep breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he shrugged exaggeratedly, abruptly dropping his shoulders in time with a heavy exhale. “Where do I start?”

 

“You may begin by telling me why you were here in the first place,” he said, keeping his voice steady and his expression stoic; though he felt a deep twinge of resentment that Will had, yet again, been the one to witness the majority of one of her fits.

 

“Uh, well, she called me this morning; said she got my number from Alana's phone... She wanted to treat me to coffee, as an apology for what happened at the house.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I told her it wasn't necessary, but apparently she's pretty persuasive when she wants to be.”

 

Hannibal smirked and nodded, but said nothing as he waited for him to continue.

 

“Everything was fine until she started talking to herself again and, well... knowing how bad it could get, I called you right away; got everyone out... She just muttered a lot. Wandered around. She was obviously somewhere else.”

 

“What did she say?”

 

Will squinted up at the sky as he thought for a moment. “Uh... Well, a lot of no, and 'not mine, it's okay' – which I remember specifically from the last time, too. When she had the episode at my place... 'Not mine, makes it okay.'”

 

“I see.”

 

“When you got here, I mean, you saw... the wandering around. I had to move a bunch of tables out of her way so she wouldn't hurt herself...” Will sighed heavily and dug his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them violently. “I-I can't figure her out – what _happened_ to her?”

 

“Will, don't take this – not this one,” he said sternly. “Her cross is not yours to bear.”

 

“I can't just turn this off and on at the drop of a goddamn hat, Hannibal,” Will snapped, his raised voice gathering the attention of a few passersby. He glared after them for a moment before looking back to Hannibal and lowering his voice again. “I-I don't exactly do it on _purpose_.”

 

Hannibal took a wide step forward, leaning in to look him dead in the eye. “Where Delilah Bloom is concerned, I suggest you find a switch.”

 

They stared each other down for several seconds, before Will took a small step back and nodded. “Sure... I'll try.”

 

“Good,” he clipped, standing up straight again. “I trust you will inform Alana.”

 

“I-... Well, I mean... Why, uh –” He floundered a bit before falling silent.

 

“She would appreciate knowing, Will.”

 

“Sure, but –”

 

“I imagine you can catch her in Jack's office at this hour,” he muttered, checking his watch to find it was three-thirty. “Would you still like to keep your appointment for today?”

 

Will shifted awkwardly and Hannibal took that as a 'no,' which he was quite fine with, given the circumstances. “Then I'll see you Sunday.”

 

“...Right, dinner, yeah. See you then.”

 

Hannibal watched as Will trudged over to his beat up little Volvo, fully aware that he probably shouldn't be driving in his state. Though the sleepwalking appeared to be a one-off, he had confided in him during their last meeting that he still hadn't been sleeping well; he was having vivid nightmares, waking up in cold sweats, and imagining things out the corners of his eyes – 'dark figures,' he'd said. The man would likely need to see a neurologist soon, but there was still time for that yet.

 

As the Volvo puttered off and away, Hannibal finally returned to his car and tucked himself behind the wheel, taking care to quietly shut the door so as not to wake Delilah, before setting her purse down at her feet. With his only remaining patient for the day out of the way, he pulled out into the street and proceeded to take a long, roundabout way of getting her home. Something about her delicate snores filling the cabin of the Bentley soothed him, and he was in no hurry to be rid of her.

 

Driving aimlessly, he kept a casual watch on Delilah in his peripheral as he pondered. The murders he'd committed this week had been predominantly for her benefit, and they seemed to have done their job remarkably well – perhaps a bit sooner than he had anticipated, but he didn't much care for waiting around, if it could be helped.

 

After about twenty minutes, Delilah soon began to make little noises in her sleep – mostly soft sighs and humming sounds that made the corners of his mouth twitch upward – when, suddenly, she muttered something that sounded very much like his name. He peeked over to find her shifting around in the seat, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she let out a soft moan.

 

Rolling smoothly toward a red light, he was well within the limits for being behind the car in front of him, but he allowed the vehicle to coast forward just a foot or two more and abruptly slammed his foot on the brake; Delilah awoke with a yelp and jerked forward, and he shot an arm out to prevent her from cracking her head on the dash. Her hands flew up to cling to him, pressing his forearm into her chest with a vice-like grip as she struggled to catch her breath.

 

“What the –?!”

 

“Shh, it's alright,” he assured her calmly. “I wasn't paying complete attention to the road, I apologize. Are you okay?”

 

“Y-Yes, I'm fine,” Delilah muttered shakily, digging her nails into his jacket sleeve as she struggled to calm the flood of adrenaline undoubtedly coursing through her system. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze as the light turned green and he eased the car through the intersection.

 

Once she pried her hands away from his arm, he kept it there a moment longer, twisting upward to caress her cheek with his fingertips before his hand returned to the steering wheel. Digging her palms into her thighs, she proceeded to yawn noisily and stretched, arching her back in such a way that reminded him of a cat. “Where are we?” She inquired groggily, peeking out her window at the passing trees as she carefully ran her fingers through her curls.

 

“Near a park about fifteen minutes from Alana's,” he said casually, taking a sharp right that caused her to slide his direction. She clutched to the center console and twisted herself in her seat to stare up at him. “I wasn't in a rush to wake you, so I thought a drive would be nice,” he added, peering back down at her.

 

Delilah hummed in acknowledgment and he turned away to focus on the road; slender fingers suddenly curled around the crook of his elbow, and he glanced down to find her adjusting herself to lean nearer, before she wrapped both her arms around his and laid her cheek upon his shoulder.

 

“Still tired?” he asked, and she nodded as she let out another squeaky little yawn, and he chuckled softly. “Sleep, bellissima.”

 

“Mmh... so that's what you said,” she mumbled. “That day at the hospital...”

 

Hannibal merely smirked and took a left, heading back in the proper direction to take her home as her light snoring filled the cabin once more.

 

When they arrived at the apartment complex, he parked and awkwardly killed the ignition with his free hand, before carefully disentangling his right arm from her grasp. After situating her back against the seat, he deliberated for only a moment before exiting the car and swiftly stalking around the front of the vehicle to open her door. Fishing her keys from her purse and hooking them around his index finger, he unbuckled her seat belt and set her purse on her lap, then gingerly scooped her out of the seat. She let out a soft groan and buried her face in his neck, inhaling deeply and sighing in a way that made his scalp tingle. He couldn't stop himself from grinning as he nudged the door shut with his hip and carefully carted her up to apartment #44.

 

After a brief fight with the doorknob, he entered the apartment to find the wall behind the couch completely bare. He quirked a brow as he pressed his foot against the door, and dropped her belongings on the side table before turning and locking it. Delilah mumbled something in her sleep, and he shushed her gently as he moved through the apartment in search of her bedroom.

 

He paused briefly in the hallway, noting that the door beside what he plainly saw to be the bathroom must be the master bedroom – he guessed that would be Alana's, so he nudged the remaining door open and peered about for any indication he was correct; a pair of ballet flats hanging from the mirror of a large vanity proved he had assumed accurately. Crossing the room, he laid Delilah down in the center of her bed and quickly slipped off her shoes, placing them on the floor before tugging the sheet and duvet up over her.

 

“Mmmh-feh,” she grumbled, sounding annoyed as she immediately turned on her side and nuzzled her face into the pillow.

 

Hannibal watched her with amusement for a brief moment before closing the hefty curtains that adorned her window, and bringing the cushioned bench over from her vanity to settle in at her bedside. The blackout curtains did their duty and it was nearly black as pitch in the room, so he moved to switch on the lamp resting on her nightstand, mildly surprised when the antique-looking, brass fixture switched on at his touch alone.

 

As he listened to her hum and shift about in her sleep, he took the time to study her room. The lamp wasn't the only antique she kept, as he noted that the elegant rosewood vanity directly across from her bed – though likely a reproduction – must be modeled after the late 18 th  century; Rococo style, if he was not mistaken. And he very seldom was.

 

The colour palette she had chosen for any fabric embellishments were muted sages and creams, both inviting and soothing, while the pieces of furniture were all rich, dark wood – stark contrasts that married well. She had a good eye, which was something he could certainly appreciate.

 

“Doctor Lecter?” He suddenly heard Delilah whisper, and he turned to find her squinting up at him in confusion. “Am I... awake?”

 

Fighting against a grin, Hannibal tilted his head and teasingly quirked a brow at her. “Do you dream of me often enough not to trust your eyes?”

 

“Increasingly, lately.”

 

Hannibal paused to chew on his lip as he regarded her; he hadn't expected her to admit it. “...Would you like to tell me about them?”

 

“No,” she replied hastily, sitting up on the bed and digging her nails into the duvet to keep it cemented around her waist. “What time is it?”

 

“Nearly four-thirty,” he said, pushing up his sleeve to peek at his watch. “You've had a decent nap; shall we discuss today's events?”

 

“...Is this a session?”

 

“No.” He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, wishing for a proper chair. “This would just be two people having a conversation.” He watched her run her fingers through her hair as she deliberated, when she suddenly scooted clear over to the opposite side of the bed.

 

“Come sit by me, then.”

 

When he simply stared at her, she flipped the covers back and patted the space with a wry smile. “I'll be good, Doctor Lecter,” she assured him, entirely unconvincingly.

 

Hannibal leaned forward to remove his shoes, then paused a moment to watch uncertainty creep onto her face. “We're a bit past such formalities, don't you agree?” He said with brows raised, sliding off his black oxfords and setting them neatly on the floor beside her pumps. She let out a relieved-sounding titter, watching as he climbed onto the bed and settled the covers over his slacks.

 

Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he quickly pulled her near and leaned back against the headboard to stare at the ceiling. “Is it easier to speak when I'm not looking at you directly?” He asked, glancing down to watch her fiddle with the duvet.

 

“...Yes,” came her soft reply. “I... I honestly don't remember what caused it today. I'm getting so sick of this.”

 

“You're concerned you're wasting my time,” he inferred, and she nodded. He toyed with the sleeve of her shirt as he looked around, realizing that if he were to scoot up just a bit he would be able to see their reflection in the vanity mirror across from them. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, he leaned her forward slightly and readjusted the pillows behind them, shuffling back to sit up more and dragging her back into his side. “Well, you needn't worry about that,” he assured her, gently brushing his knuckles and thumb along her upper arm. She shivered slightly and he studied her in the mirror; she had ceased fussing with the covers and her eyes were fixed on his hand. “Perhaps we can try an exercise to jog your memory?”

 

“Is that wise?”

 

“I think I'll be able to handle it if you lash out.”

 

“...Alright then.” She sat up a bit straighter and smoothed her hands over her thighs to rest them on her knees. “Do your worst.”

 

Hannibal bit back a laugh at the underlying implications of such a statement, then gave her arm a squeeze. “I want you to close your eyes, and envision yourself standing at the last place you can recall being before your episode occurred. Tell me when you're there.” He watched in the mirror as she shut her eyes at once, and listened to her take a few long, deep breaths.

 

After several moments, she cleared her throat and whispered, “O-Okay. I'm there.”

 

“Describe it to me.”

 

“I... I've just told Will which options we have for cake; he's made a face at the mention of carrot, so... I turn to fetch him a slice of chocolate.”

 

“You turn away from Will, and what do you see?”

 

“I just see the café, as I've always seen it. But there's so many people... too many. Why is it always so crowded lately?”

 

“Pick a table and tell me who you see.”

 

“Um...” He saw her brow furrow in concentration. “Directly across from me and to the right a bit, there's some college students... One with red hair, and another in a baseball cap.”

 

“There's a reason you've chosen them specifically, Delilah, what are they doing?”

 

“... They're watching s-something on a computer.”

 

Hannibal watched closely as her lips twitched into a minuscule frown. “What are they watching? A film, or a program? … Perhaps the –”

 

“News,” she whispered, “they're watching the news. I move closer to hear them better. I... I listen in on their conversation and they're talking about the m-murders.”

 

“What about the murders,” he goaded her softly.

 

“One of them... the redhead, he-... He's the son of an officer; his father told him details that hadn't been released yet.”

 

She began to breathe rapidly, in and out through her nose, her breaths as shaky and stilted as if she were standing out in the cold. “What details, Delilah?”

 

“Th-That the-... the k-killer, he took their– _No._ No, no, no...“

 

Delilah began shaking her head furiously and, thinking quickly, he pulled her up onto his lap and wrapped his arms tight around her. “Delilah, stay with me,” he said firmly, bringing a hand up to smooth her curls away from her face.

 

When she finally stopped trembling and he peered down to find her blue eyes wide open, though lucid, he grasped her face and tilted her head up to look at him. “What did he take, Delilah?” he whispered, leaning close enough to allow the tip of his nose to brush against hers.

 

She swallowed a lump in her throat and inhaled sharply before replying. “H-He took their he-hearts.”

 

“And why does that affect you so?”

 

“Because I...” She suddenly shut her eyes tight and wrenched her head from his grasp, throwing her arms around him to grip fistfuls of his suit jacket and burying her face in his neck. “P-Please... Please don't make me say it,” she begged, her trembling voice muffled against his throat.

 

Warm tears dampened his skin and slid down to soak into his collar, and he rested his cheek against her head as he rocked her gently. “There, there. Shh, that's all for today,” he murmured, sliding his palms up and down the curve of her back.

 

After several long moments, her quavering ceased and she tucked her chin to her chest, pulling away slightly to sniffle. He leaned back a bit to peer down at her, then searched their immediate vicinity for something she could use to wipe her nose. Finding nothing, he brushed his lips against her temple before lifting her off his lap and depositing her on the mattress. “I'll get you some tissues,” he explained, before stalking off to the bathroom.

 

As he plucked a box of tissues from the counter, he paused at the mirrored cabinet on the wall and flipped it open to search for her medication. Quickly finding the Zoloft, he pushed the cabinet shut and returned to the bedroom to find Delilah staring wide-eyed at her hands. “Not mine. It's okay,” she hissed to herself. “Not mine, makes it okay... That's what he said. That's what it means. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay – if you take what isn't yours.”

 

Hannibal cleared his throat and slammed the door shut behind him, but she didn't so much as twitch in response. “Delilah,” he called, his stern voice several octaves louder than usual, and her head snapped up after only a moment's hesitation.

 

“The river. I was there, but I didn't put it _there._ I didn't,” she breathed urgently, words tumbling from her lips so fast he had to strain to catch them all, as he crossed briskly to sit by her side. “I didn't put it there, in the water, I-... I put it in the ground. But not too deep – didn't want it to be too deep. No. I wanted the animals to find it, you know? I wanted... them... to _eat_ it.”

 

He watched her harried gaze diminish as she slowly came to her senses. “I... I'm sorry, I –” She shut her eyes tight and shook her head, and he sighed as he gently placed the tissues on her lap.

 

“Never apologize to me for this,” he said firmly.

 

“Okay,” she muttered, sounding entirely unconvinced, as she clutched the box to her chest before pulling out a couple tissues and turning away from him to blow her nose. Wadding them up, she grabbed another to dab at her eyes, then faced him and offered a pitiful attempt at a smile.

 

“I think you can do better than that,” he muttered, reaching up to graze his knuckles against her cheek; he watched her smile widen a fraction, as she leaned in to his touch. “You were in the middle of a Dissociative event and you came back to me – twice,” he informed her, dropping his hand from her face. “This is outstanding progress, Delilah – be proud of yourself.”

 

“... It's only because you're here,” she muttered, chucking her used tissues into a small bin beside the nightstand. Before he could respond, she reached out to take the pill bottle from him, but he swiftly pulled it back and shook his head.

 

“Ah-ah. When was the last time you took these?”

 

“Uh, well...” She slumped a bit and avoided his eyes, as she muttered shamefully, “I think it was nearly a week ago. I-I've just been so busy –”

 

“Perfect,” he said simply, his lips twisting in amusement at the thoroughly befuddled look on her face. “That means we can try something a bit more unorthodox, tomorrow.”

 

Her gaze immediately snapped to his and she perked up considerably, her curiosity evidently piqued. “Alright...”

 

“You should get some more rest now. Mrs. Cartwright has suggested that you take the next week off, and I adamantly agree.”

 

Delilah's face fell and she pouted slightly. “But... She needs me.”

 

“She needs you _well-rested_ ,” he corrected, stuffing the bottle of Zoloft into his jacket pocket. “As do I. I also need you well-fed, so I suggest you eat a hearty breakfast and lunch before our appointment tomorrow. I'll know if you don't,” he warned before rising from the bed and slipping his shoes on.

 

“Yes, _Sir,_ ” she replied cheekily, and he exhaled a short puff of laughter through his nose before turning and crossing the room.

 

Pausing at the door, he unlocked it and glanced back at her. “What happened to all the photographs in the living room?”

 

“I stuffed them under the couch,” she replied simply, as if it were a logical thing to do.

 

“...See you tomorrow, Delilah.”

 

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Behavioral Sciences Unit, FBI_

_Quantico, VA_

_Friday – 11:32 AM_

 

 

Three bodies lay on cold steel tables, two male and one female, all covered only to their waists with crisp white sheets. Of the three, the least recognizable as once resembling a human being was the one in the center, Matthew Nelson. When his pregnant ex-wife had discovered his body, the massive dog found on the scene had opted to gnaw on his face, rather than bother with his exposed insides.

 

“How did she know it was him?” Alana asked, her upper lip curling in disgust as she studied the mangled remains of the man's face.

 

Jack cleared his throat and pointed to the remaining half of a scar on the man's forehead, which was so large that it stretched upward onto his scalp. “He was in an altercation several weeks ago,” he said, turning to point his finger at her as he added in an accusatory manner, “with _your_ sister, if I'm not mistaken.”

 

Alana blinked and looked to Will, who stared back at her with confusion in his eyes. “I...” She swallowed thickly and looked back at the mutilated pulp and bone fragments. “This is _that_ Matt?”

 

“Matthew Nelson, yes,” Jack replied, ripping off his glove with a resounding snap and tossing them in the hazardous waste bin. “There's a police report with both of their names on it. The PD seems to think they were in some sort of domestic dispute.”

 

“Domestic –? No. No, they weren't together. She never told me what happened, exactly, but...” She thought for a moment, her stomach twisting uncomfortably as she realized just where Jack's train of thought was heading, then added quickly, “But she said she's told Hannibal.”

 

“...She's seeing Hannibal Lecter for therapy?”

 

“Yes, she has di– Uh...”

 

Jack's eyebrows shot to the ceiling as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “She has di- _what_? Sorry, I didn't catch that.”

 

“She just has some issues; he's helping her a lot, though. Jack, my sister is _not_ a –... She didn't do this.”

 

“Jack, I've met Delilah,” Will chimed in, prying his concerned gaze away from her to face Jack. “There's no way she could have done all this. I-I mean, stringing up the bodies? She's a-... Well, I mean, I wouldn't call her a weakling but-... Sh-She's a tiny person, Jack.”

 

“She's a midget?”

 

“She is not,” Alana snapped indignantly.

 

Will laughed in spite of the situation and removed his own gloves to scrub a hand over his face. “No, no. She's just, uh– Short? And not exactly muscular? You know, small.”

 

The man's still narrowed eyes shifted back and forth between them, clearly unconvinced. “Right... We'll see,” was all he said, before turning and exiting the lab.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s Office_

– _3:01 PM_

 

As Hannibal was gathering the finishing touches for his, likely illegal, addition to therapy for Delilah, a knock suddenly sounded at the main door and he glanced up from the silver platter with annoyed interest; the knock was much too heavy to be her. Quickly lifting the platter from his desk, he marched to the back room and stowed it away, carefully shutting the door before striding over to see who could be bothering him.

 

Wholly expecting it to be Franklyn there to irritate him as only the neurotic little man could, he was surprised when he pulled the door open to find none other than Jack Crawford impatiently awaiting him. “Ah, hello Jack,” he said, giving the room a quick once-over to be sure Delilah hadn't arrived yet.

 

“Are you expecting someone?” Jack inquired, removing his hat as he brushed past him to enter the office.

 

“...By all means, come in,” he mumbled, biting back a scowl as he pushed the door shut and turned to face him. “As a matter of fact, I happen to have a patient due to arrive any moment. Is this an urgent matter, or can it wait?”

 

“I just have a few quick questions about one of your patients... Delilah Bloom?”

 

Hannibal affected a properly perturbed scowl. “You know I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, Jack.”

 

“As you should. But this is a matter of FBI importance – I think it trumps your code of ethics... I can pursue a court order, if necessary?”

 

Inhaling deeply, Hannibal folded his hands in front of himself and shook his head. “That is entirely unnecessary. Ask away.”

 

“How long has Ms. Bloom been seeing you for therapy?”

 

“Approximately two and a half weeks.”

 

“What's her diagnosis?”

 

“It's too early to tell.”

 

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, before Jack pressed on. “Alana said Ms. Bloom told you about an incident that took place around early September – something to do with a man at a dance studio?”

 

 _'Ah, so that's why,'_ he thought, easily keeping his expression passive. “She did, yes,” was all he offered in reply.

 

Jack studied him closely, running the brim of his utterly ridiculous hat between his fingers. “...What exactly happened that day? The report states it was a domestic dispute, but Alana claims they were never involved.”

 

“They weren't. The man had made a pass at her and she reacted.”

 

“ _Over_ reacted.”

 

“With all due respect, Jack, I would have to disagree.”

 

“The scar on his head was massive, Hannibal. I'd call that an extreme overreaction.”

 

Hannibal pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “What if it had been Bella being manhandled – would you find any reaction on her part an overreaction?” Jack's nostrils flared and he knew he'd struck the right chord. “I'd expect your wife could kill a man who'd thought to touch her inappropriately, and you would find her well within her rights.”

 

“...Fair enough,” he muttered reluctantly. He tapped his palm against the brim of his hat as he looked around the room, likely searching for a new tactic, but the doctor was having none of it.

 

“If that's all...?” He inquired dismissively, gesturing toward the door. Just as his hand reached to turn the knob, a soft knocking sounded and he glanced at the clock to find it was only twelve past the hour. _Eager little thing._

 

Jack scowled and shoved his hat back onto his head. “I'll just get out of your hair, then.”

 

Jaw clenched in annoyance, Hannibal pulled the door open to find Delilah smiling coquettishly up at him, and he inhaled sharply. She was an absolute vision, in a chic, deep crimson dress that hugged her curves in ways that should be deemed illegal; it was a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder number, the wide collar of which cut a stark line across her alabaster chest, just below her clavicle; her hair was done-up for the first time he'd seen, in a purposefully messy twist that left wisps of gold free to caress the sides of her face and neck.

 

He opened his mouth to speak but no words would find him, and he turned to find Jack ogling her as well – though he looked entirely taken aback and, if Hannibal was reading him correctly, more than a little disappointed.

 

“Uh, hello,” she said, her eyes shifting to Jack, who moved to stand at his side. “Sorry, I'm a bit early...”

 

“Jack Crawford,” the man introduced himself loudly, thrusting a hand out to shake hers. “Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico.”

 

Hannibal watched closely as Delilah swallowed a sudden little lump in her throat, though her face gave nothing away that would signal any discomfit as she firmly shook his hand, and he felt a small swell of pride.

 

“Nice to meet you. I'm Delilah Bloom,” she replied evenly. “I think you work with my sister?”

 

“Yes, Alana and I go way back...” He released her hand and gave them a clearly forced smile. “Well, have a nice day Ms. Bloom; Hannibal.”

 

They both watched him disappear down the stairs, waiting a few moments longer to be sure they heard him make his way down the hall. “Impressive,” he finally said, slipping a hand to her lower back and guiding her into his office.

 

Letting out a breath she'd been holding, she moved to the coat rack to hang up her purse. “H-He works for the FBI?” She asked, wringing her fingers together as she turned to face him.

 

Hannibal nodded as he gave her another once-over, admiring her outfit as brazenly as he pleased; he watched her hands glide over her hips and downward, to adjust the hem of her dress. Her smooth legs were bare and he couldn't find any trace of a pantyline through the dark red fabric; he found himself exceedingly curious as to what she was wearing under that veritable slip of a dress.

 

“Excuse you, mister,” she said, sounding playfully affronted as she stepped towards him. “My eyes are up here.”

 

Hannibal's eyes rolled briefly to the ceiling, as he chuckled softly and reached out for her; snatching her right wrist, he pulled her near and studied her palm to find her stitches had been removed, and Steri-strips had been applied in their stead. “You've healed well,” he noted, tracing a fingertip along the thin, pinkish line that was all that remained of her injury.

 

“Mm, so the doctor said this morning,” she hummed, sliding her free hand up his arm to rest against his bicep. He peered curiously down at her, before shifting her hand in his and pressing his other to the small of her back.

 

“Do you only know ballet?”

 

“No... I know some basic ballroom dancing, as well,” she replied, obviously puzzled by the abrupt change in topic.

 

Hannibal jerked his arm to nudge her hand up to his shoulder, then readjusted their arms and created a bit of space between them before sliding the hand on her back up to her shoulder blade. “Let's see, then.”

 

“But I–” Her words were lost as he began to lead without warning, and she struggled to keep her arms in position though she followed quite well.

 

As he quick-stepped her toward the settee, he shook her hand a little in an effort to make her stiffen her elbow. “Your form could use some work,” he stated plainly.

 

Delilah giggled as he swept her across the office, deftly guiding her around their various obstacles. “I'm having a _'Dirty Dancing'_ flashback,” she explained in response to his bemused expression. “Spaghetti arms, you know.”

 

“Forgive me, Delilah, but I won't be singing any Bill Medley – or at all, for that matter.”

 

She let out an exaggerated gasp. “Have I just discovered something the Great Doctor Lecter can't do?”

 

His eyes narrowed and he suddenly maneuvered her body to twist her inward, pressing his palm flat against her stomach and pinning her to his chest. “Can't and won't have entirely different meanings,” he rumbled in her ear, his tone rife with mock irritation. He then leaned back and abruptly spun her outward again, letting go to watch as she twirled away from him and planted her feet firmly on the floor to readjust the fabric creeping up her thighs.

 

“Not exactly the dress for this,” she muttered, blowing a freshly loosened curl out of her eyes.

 

Hannibal chuckled lightly as he doubled back to hang up his coat and lock the office door; he then turned back to her and began undoing the buttons at his wrists. “Sit, please,” he instructed, holding a hand out toward his own high-backed chair behind his desk. As he began meticulously folding the sleeves of his dress shirt, up to just below his elbows, he watched her slowly make her way across the room; gingerly sitting where she was told, she laid her palms flat on the desk and leaned forward.

 

“...Will we begin my unorthodox session, now?” Delilah inquired, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she suggestively quirked a brow at him.

 

Hannibal took his time carefully folding his other sleeve before he nodded once, but he gave her nothing else as he then stalked right past her to enter the room at the far corner of his office – grinning to himself at her thoroughly mystified expression that followed.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_ **Chapter 9** _

 

 

Swiveling from side to side in Hannibal's chair, Delilah waited impatiently for him to come back as she studied the mezzanine lining three-quarters of the office. _'So many books,'_ she thought, vaguely wondering just how many there were up there, and whether he'd read them all – but she sincerely doubted it. Who on Earth had that kind of time?

 

“Do you remember what you asked of me,” Hannibal suddenly called from behind her, and Delilah peeked over her shoulder to watch as he busied himself with something just out of her direct line of sight. “...That first day you set foot in my office?”

 

“I asked, um...” She paused a moment to think, turning back to study the stereotypical therapist's couch that sat dead center between the colossal windows. “I think... I asked if you had any booze?”

 

She heard him chuckle. “You asked if I had anything stronger than water,” he corrected.

 

“Ah, right...” She gripped the edge of the desk and began twisting the chair around again. “Which you never did give me, by the way.”

 

“Of course I didn't,” he replied, his voice increasing in clarity, while lowering in volume, as she found him approaching in her peripheral. “As that would have been woefully irresponsible.”

 

Hannibal stopped at her side and she stilled her chair to get a proper look at the large, silver tray resting on his palm; Delilah's brow twisted in confusion as she studied its contents. In the center was a large glass bottle, filled with what she assumed to be ice water; beside it sat a much smaller, dark green bottle, with a parchment label; two frosty, crystal glasses; a white, unmarked box; and a beautifully filigreed, silver slotted spoon.

 

“I thought perhaps we can make up for lost drinks,” he said, carefully setting the platter on the desk, “and learn something in the process.” He stepped away and grabbed himself a chair, swiftly bringing it around to sit beside her.

 

Gripping the neck of the smaller bottle, she turned it to read the only word she could see that was in English. “Absinthe, hm?”

 

He nodded, taking the bottle and removing the cork. “I trust you've heard of it?”

 

“Of course,” she replied, cheeks warming as she bristled defensively. “I've had it before, you know.”

 

“Judging by your initial bewilderment, I would argue you haven't.”

 

Before she could interject, he cleared his throat and clarified gently, “True absinthe is difficult to come by in the States; this little bottle, however, was purchased at a shop called La Maison Du Pastis, in Marseille.”

 

“I see...” She plopped her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palms as she watched him pour two fingers' worth of lush, deep green liquid into each chilled glass. Setting the bottle down and replacing the cork, he then laid the slotted spoon over one of the glasses and tugged the small box nearer to him, flipping it open to reveal neat little rows of sugar cubes.

 

“So, this is your 'something unorthodox'?” She inquired, finding herself highly amused. “You intend to get me drunk?”

 

Hannibal snorted lightly. “I intend to lower your inhibitions, Delilah, but I won't force you if you'd rather n–”

 

“No, no. I'll drink it,” she assured him quickly, dropping her hands to cross her arms upon the desk, as she angled her head to face him. “I trust you,” she added, her lips twitching into a small smile as she realized how much she meant that.

 

He studied her for a moment, then returned her smile. “Good,” he said simply.

 

Placing a single sugar cube upon the filigreed spoon, he took up the bottle of water and stoppered the opening with his thumb. “Traditionally, a particular drip is used to slowly pour the water over the sugar cube, infusing the liquor with what is essentially a simple syrup,” he educated her quietly. “But as I do not have such a device in my office, we will improvise.”

 

“...Do you have such a device at home, Hannibal?”

 

“Naturellement, ma chérie,” he replied, his French impeccable as far as she could tell.

 

The pair watched as the ice water steadily dripped past his thumb and over the sugar cube, ever so slowly dissolving it into the liquor below and transforming it from a dark forest to a light sage. The process was agonizingly tedious, however, and soon she found herself beginning to fidget. A warm hand suddenly rested on her knee, effectively stilling her twitching as Hannibal whispered, “Patience,” his tone politely amused.

 

“A virtue I evidently lack around you,” she muttered, dropping her left hand to rest over his and stroking his index finger with her thumb. “So... Tell me, since we’re chasing the green fairy today, do you also have plans to get me doped up on opium?”

 

“Now, there’s a thought,” he mused, allowing a few last drops of water to push the rest of the sugar through the spoon and setting the bottle back down on the tray. “Baudelaire was said to prefer his absinthe with laudanum... I have a small bottle at home, if you’re truly curious.” He stirred the spoon once in her drink before setting it atop what she assumed would be his own glass, then handed her the finished cocktail with a playful wink.

 

Pointedly ignoring that statement, and its potential implications, Delilah took the proffered glass with both hands. “...Oscar Wilde claimed absinthe drove men to madness,” she said, holding the liquid up to eye-level and studying it.

 

“True...” He acquiesced. “However, Wilde also said that after the first glass of absinthe, you see things as you wish they were –”

 

“And after the second,” Delilah interrupted, “you see things as they are not –”

 

“And finally,” Hannibal concluded with a nod, “you see things as they really are.”

 

Delilah took a steadying breath, her eyes darting to his. “Do you expect me to drink three glasses of this, then?”

 

He chuckled warmly and began rubbing circles on the inside of her knee. “No. I think one glass should suffice, for you.”

 

“That feels a bit like an insult, Doctor Lecter,” she replied with a pout.

 

“On the contrary, I simply mean that I am convinced you are much more aware than you let on,” he said. “You already see things perfectly clearly – this is only meant to calm your nerves enough to share.”

 

Her eyes trailed over to the second glass and she canted her head. “Do you intend to join me, or no?”

 

“I do.” He nodded once. “But I want to watch your face as you taste it for the first time.”

 

Licking her lips, Delilah looked down and endeavored to focus her attention solely on the drink in her hand; the pale liquid shifted around silently, like a hazy green cloud from some place distinctly _other._ She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Hannibal was watching her every move with clear and abundant interest… And trying more so to dutifully ignore the sweet warmth creeping up her thigh, as his fingertips continued to trace shapes upon her leg.

 

‘ _Tasting a simple cocktail should not feel this sensual,’_ she thought absently, swirling the liquor beneath her nose to first take in its scent.

 

It certainly didn't smell like the absinthe she thought she’d already had, whatever that radioactive nonsense had been; rather than an aggressive, black licorice punch to her senses, this mysterious liquid smelled much more organic and had a faintly floral quality. Her tongue trailed along her bottom lip once more, and her eyes fluttered open to catch the index finger of Hannibal’s free hand tracing his own lip, as he watched with rapt attention. She caught his eye and held his gaze as she took her first sip, noting how his mouth parted just as the cool, green liquid washed over her tongue. Finding his mouth all too distracting, she shut her eyes again to assess the flavour.

 

Anise came first, as expected; the oil of which was commonly used to make black licorice, of course, though this was worlds away from any mere candy. The drink was smooth and refreshing; herbal and floral; with a mild bitterness and bite of spice that warmed her body, even as the icy drink slid down her throat. The sweetness of the sugar came last, coating her tongue tenderly – not cloyingly sweet, but just enough.

 

Delilah sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, savoring that first sip before taking another.

 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she murmured, opening her eyes to find Hannibal still staring at her; he looked altogether bewitched, with his mouth still parted and his tongue trailing along his upper teeth.

 

Hannibal's lip twitched ever so slightly, as if he were preparing to say something, but evidently thought better of it and closed his mouth. She had to suppress a frown when, instead, he removed his hand from her leg and set to task in fixing his own cocktail.

 

Several long moments and quiet sips passed before he finally spoke.

 

“Once you've finished your drink, we're going to play a little game,” he announced, placing the bottle on the desk and swirling the spoon in his glass, before setting it down and taking a swig. “I'm going to say a word, and I want you to say the first thing that pops into your mind; it can also be a word, or a phrase – but whatever it is, don't overthink it, just answer.”

 

“...The word-association game, really?” she asked, her mouth twisting in amusement.

 

“Humor me.”

 

“Alright,” she replied, continuing to nurse her cocktail as she glanced out the windows. Delilah watched as thick, gray storm clouds swallowed any remaining patches of blue, quickly snuffing out the once abundant natural light of the room.

 

Hannibal rose after several moments of amicable silence and, rather than turn on any lamps, moved past her to start a fire in the hearth. Just as he returned to his seat, she tipped the last two sips of absinthe back in one swig and set her glass down upon the desk. A cozy warmth slithered down her spine and she settled back into her seat, listening to the fire crackle as she watched its orange glow dance along the wall.

 

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal inquired, studying her over the rim of his glass.

 

“Mm...” She hummed thoughtfully. “Relaxed.”

 

“Very good. Are you ready to begin?”

 

Delilah's scalp prickled at the rumble of his voice, and she took a moment to stand and shake herself out a bit; slipping off her shoes and tugging the hem of her dress down, she folded one leg under herself and dug a toe into the rug to keep her chair steady. “Okay, shoot.”

 

“...Comfortable?” He asked, evidently entertained, as he set his half-finished glass upon the desk.

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Alright, the first thing that comes to your mind,” he reminded her, before clearing his throat and leaning forward. “...Black.”

 

“Gray.”

 

“Fire.”

 

“Soothing.”

 

“Therapy.”

 

“A bit tedious.”

 

Hannibal smirked at that, and she felt her cheeks warm. “Sorry, I didn't mean–”

 

“No apologizing.”

 

He fell silent for a moment, then began again. “Family.”

 

“Fucking mess.”

 

“Mother.”

 

“Pathetic.”

 

“Father.”

 

“Unknown.”

 

“...Travis Bloom.”

 

“Offal.”

 

“Did you say _awful_?” He asked quietly, and she clamped down on her bottom lip as she slowly shook her head, watching his brow jump slightly in response.

 

Hannibal leaned back in his seat and rubbed his jaw as he regarded her. “How much do you know about Travis Bloom's murder?”

 

A splash of red decorating the cold, cement floor of a garage suddenly flashed across her mind, and she shut her eyes tight to shake it away. “I... know enough,” she muttered, her voice paper-thin.

 

“Look at me, Delilah,” he commanded gently, and her eyes reluctantly found his. He held her gaze, raking his teeth over his lip as he leaned forward again. “I would like you to tell me about your childhood now.”

 

“...What about it?”

 

“Anything. Everything.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “When you think back, what stands out?”

 

Delilah's brow contorted as she looked to the floor and took a deep breath. Memories of trying to keep quiet as she played with her barbie dolls flitted to the forefront of her mind; trying to sneak into the kitchen for a snack and making sure _he_ didn't spot her; keeping her head down when they passed in the hall, because she knew if she dared even make eye contact _he'd_ say something nasty.

 

“No, Delilah. Focus on me and tell me what you're thinking,” Hannibal instructed firmly.

 

“Just how, um... stifling it was. Because, well, wh–” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, sucking in a shaky breath and forcing herself to focus on his eyes; she watched the firelight dance within his remarkably dilated pupils as she began again.

 

“When Alana was very young, our mother had an affair,” she explained; smirking as she added, “Or as I like to call it, a moment of clarity.”

 

“You approve of infidelity?” He asked, his tone merely curious, and she shrugged.

 

“Not usually, no. But, as with most things, I believe there are exceptions.”

 

Hannibal inclined his head, as if to say 'fair enough,' then gestured for her to continue.

 

“As far as anyone really knew, Travis and Patricia Bloom were the perfect little couple – a well-respected physician and his doting young wife.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and snorted in disgust. “In reality, he was an entitled asshole, and my mother was just too young and dumb to realize it before she agreed to marry him; he was already in his mid-thirties, and she was fresh out of high school. Barely legal.”

 

It was Hannibal's turn to let out a derisive huff, and she nodded. “So, anyway, when Alana was about five years old, our mother met someone I imagine treated her like an actual human being for once. Travis had been out of town for the week, business or something, and she and the man had a brief affair; my mom told me she had planned to take Alana and run away with him, but Travis had come back early and caught them going through her things together.

 

“He beat the man bloody – probably mom, too – and the entire affair was essentially swept under the rug. About forty weeks later, I was born, and Travis' name was placed on the birth certificate.”

 

“Why didn't he leave her? Surely a divorce would be preferable.”

 

Delilah sighed heavily. “'What God has joined together, let man not separate,'” she recited snidely. “...Travis was heavily involved in the church.”

 

“But Patricia committed adultery,” he replied simply. “In the eyes of God, she had already severed their bond.”

 

“Isn't that always the way, though? People cling to their religion and then cherry pick the parts they like best. I'm sure he knew how stupidly lucky he was to have her; he wasn't going to let her go over a tryst with some nobody he'd already scared away.”

 

Hannibal nodded pensively, staring at the fire for a moment before looking back to her. “Did she not give you the man's name?”

 

“No. I asked a few times, but she always avoided it or changed the subject. I suspect she was afraid I'd try to find him, and leave her to get away from Travis, or something.”

 

“I can see why you find your mother pathetic,” he mumbled, and she laughed softly.

 

“I know she was young, but that's hardly an excuse for all the glaring mistakes she made.” She sniffed and rested her chin on her hand, though she forced herself to keep her eyes on Hannibal. “Growing up, I always knew something was off, you know? Travis treated me like a complete nuisance, and was unnecessarily harsh about everything I did. I was the problem child and Alana was an angel; he gave her everything – took her out of school every so often to go to Disneyland, or wherever, and bought her presents 'just because.' He gave me nothing more than dirty looks if I so much as breathed too loudly.

 

“My mother tried to make up for it as best she could, and she really was good to me, but it still stung. It wasn't until I was around eleven that I learned about the affair and everything.”

 

“Alana was seventeen,” Hannibal interjected. “I suppose your mother thought it time she knew?”

 

Delilah nodded and stretched her back out a bit before crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, and Alana didn't exactly... take it very well. She screamed and cursed at her – which prompted me to come downstairs. She called mom a whore, and me a mistake, and wouldn't talk to either of us for weeks after. She always thought Travis had hung the moon, of course,” she added, her lip curling in disgust. “When mom confided in her, it only solidified his perfection in her mind.”

 

“Alana never cared that he treated you as lesser?”

 

“We were children.” Delilah shrugged, dropping her hands to her lap. “I was the pesky little sister, always trying to copy her and whatnot. I'm pretty sure she hated me, until she left for college...”

 

A corner of Hannibal's mouth quirked as he stared in silence, clearly waiting for her to continue; she sighed and scrubbed a hand over her mouth, rising from her seat to meander toward the fireplace.

 

“After about a solid month of giving us the silent treatment, Alana started applying for colleges and... everything was sort of forgotten, in all the excitement. Things went back to normal – hell, better than normal, for a short while. Travis was too busy pouring over college brochures with Alana; helping her decide which school to attend of the many that had accepted her. So, things were easier.

 

“But, when she left, everything... changed. Mom pulled away from me, too busy bending over backwards to keep Travis happy after his 'only daughter' had left the nest. As for Travis, he started talking to me more, but it was never fatherly things anyone would expect...

 

“He made comments about how he wouldn’t bother to chase away any boys if they came to ask me out; said he hoped someone would snatch me away, so he wouldn’t have to look at me anymore and–” Her voice broke and she felt Hannibal step up to her side; he didn't try to touch her and she was grateful for it, in the moment. She glared at the flames licking the hearth and wrapped her arms tight around herself.

 

“...One afternoon, when I was fourteen, he came home from work while mom was out getting groceries. He-... he barged into my room while I was reading – _'You're not really my daughter,'_ he said – and I just remember being _so_ confused. One moment I was on my bed, completely engrossed in my book, and the next I was being pulled from the mattress, my back hit the carpet, and all the wind was knocked out of me.”

 

She stopped to take a breath, and turned to find Hannibal glaring at the fire as well, his eyes tight and almost frightening with the way the light and shadows jumped haphazardly across his face. When she didn't speak, he blinked and glanced at her out the corner of his eye before softening his gaze and facing her as well.

 

“...He just kept saying I wasn’t really his, so it was okay, right?” She continued, searching his eyes as she spoke in a rush. “No blood, not from him. I wasn’t really his… And he was making lewd comments about my body, a-and his hands were everywhere, and I... I couldn’t find my voice. I couldn’t breathe to speak. It was so unexpected, so _horribly_ wrong...

 

He’d gotten me half undressed when the front door opened, and my mother hollered up the stairs to announce she was home, a-and... He stopped dead in the middle of unzipping his pants, righted himself, then ripped my book in half and left me there.”

 

Hannibal studied her for a long moment, before lifting his arms just enough for her to notice the movement; she smiled sadly and stepped forward, slipping her arms around him as he enveloped her in a gentle embrace. Pressing her face directly to his chest, she inhaled deeply and let out a sigh before turning to rest her cheek against him; his grip tightened a fraction, and he lowered his lips to the top of her head. Closing her eyes, she listened to the steady thrumming of his heart through his shirt as he took a few slow, even breaths.

 

“Did he ever try again?” He spoke quietly into her hair.

 

She instinctively began to shake her head , but caught herself and gripped at fistfuls of the back of his shirt as she slowly nodded instead.

 

“Did he succeed,” he asked, though it wasn't really a question – not in cadence, anyway – and though she knew he had already come to his own conclusion, she nodded anyway; she knew what his next words would be, as well, but she waited for him to ask. “...How old were you?”

 

Delilah dug her teeth into her bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt, focusing on the sting as she swallowed thickly. “Twenty-... six,” she replied, her voice low, but still discernible amongst the ambient sounds of the room. The ambiance was all that followed, and they stood immobile as she watched the light flicker against the inky darkness of her eyelids.

 

“Delilah–” he tried, but she shook her head firmly and he fell silent.

 

“I know what you're thinking,” she said, clearing her throat as she eased herself out of his arms and took a small step backward – just enough to look up at him properly. His arms fell to his sides as she quickly crossed her own, digging her nails into her sleeves.

 

“Is that so?”

 

She sucked her teeth for a moment before nodding, her eyes darting to the desk. Deciding she could do with another drink, she moved past him and snatched up the bottle of absinthe; it wasn't until she tried pouring some into the nearest glass that she realized how badly she was trembling – but Hannibal was there in an instant, grasping the end of the bottle to hold it steady. She poured just a little less than he had done at the start, and he took the bottle from her as she knocked it back.

 

Without the sugar and water, it was unsurprisingly far more potent; less lovely, and more like she'd decided to take a shot of anise-flavoured motor oil. She tried to stifle the persistent cough that followed, pressing her hands to her cheeks and breathing deeply through her nose.

 

“This is 170 proof, Delilah,” he muttered, but she ignored him – it was a bit late for that.

 

“You think I snapped,” she announced suddenly, tamping down another pesky cough as she swung around to face him.

 

“Didn't you?”

 

Delilah clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to say it – not yet. Hannibal twisted the bottle of absinthe around in his palms for a moment, before gently setting it down and gesturing to their seats. She dropped into her chair at once and watched him hesitate again before rounding the desk to sit as well.

 

“That would make sense, wouldn't it?” She whispered.

 

“...Yes. People are pushed to all sorts of things – things they would never consider, under typical circumstances – either through fear, or perhaps blind rage.”

 

She snorted at that, but didn't reply.

 

Hannibal tucked his chin to his chest and crossed his legs, folding his hands and resting them in his lap. “I believe I recall the reports saying his body was found a few days after arriving home from some sort of family function,” he said quietly, and she nodded.

 

“Every summer, we have a family reunion over in Fairfax,” she explained. “There's campgrounds there with all sorts of activities to entertain everyone's children. It's alright... has a decent lake for fishing, if you're into that sort of thing. That's where...” The liquor suddenly rushed to her head and she shut her eyes, leaning back a bit to take a few measured breaths. “170 proof, you said?”

 

Hannibal let out a short puff of laughter. “Generally, one doesn't shoot it like tequila... Would you like me to take you home?”

 

“Mm-mm, no.” She shook her head, then blinked a bit before focusing on him again. “I-... I want...”

 

“What do you want, Delilah?”

 

Sucking in a slow breath, she gingerly crossed her legs and hooked her palms around her knee, lacing her fingers together as she squinted at him. She wanted a great many things, in that moment – a number of which were highly inappropriate for the current situation, likely brought on by the liquor that continued to cloud her mind – but beyond that, she needed to know... Needed to hear him say, out loud, that he knew precisely what she'd done.

 

“Let's play another game,” she finally said, and she watched his head tilt ever so slightly. “Quid pro quo – you answer any question I think to ask – honestly and thoroughly – and I answer yours in turn.”

 

Hannibal's lips twisted into a smirk as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studied her. “Quid pro quo,” he repeated with a nod, gesturing with his palms out toward her to signal she could go first.

 

She chewed her lip as she thought for a moment, then began with an arguably innocuous one that had been gnawing at her anyway. “That day we were interrupted – were you upset with me for being so forward, or were you upset with yourself for allowing it to happen?”

 

“Neither,” he replied quickly, and her brow quirked in surprise. “I was irritated with Franklyn for interrupting us.”

 

“You–”

 

“Ah-ah, my turn. What happened on the twenty-first of August, last year?”

 

A weight suddenly settled on her chest and her tongue was dry and sticky, like absinthe-wrung cotton. Without her even needing to ask, he poured straight water into one of the cocktail glasses and handed it to her; she accepted it gratefully and took a long swig of the cool liquid. “Cheater,” she mumbled, glaring down at her glass. “You weren't supposed to ask that yet.”

 

When he didn't respond, she held her breath for a moment before exhaling loudly and looking back up to him. “You know, don't you?” She whispered, willing it to be true.

 

“I know what I've read; I know what I've heard. Now, I want to hear it from your lips.”

 

“...What do you want to hear, exactly? How he was killed? How many pieces–” Her rising volume was teetering dangerously close to shouting at him, and she clamped her mouth shut to take a few breaths through her nose before muttering, “I'm sure you already know those things.”

 

“ _Those things_ are inessential to what you _felt_ in the moment, Delilah,” he whispered, and her eyes widened exponentially.

 

_He knows._

 

A profound silence descended upon them as their eyes stayed fixed on one another, neither uttering a word. Hannibal eventually rose from his seat, his movements slow and stilted, and paused to slip his hands into his pockets; she studied the sinew webbing across his exposed forearms as he then stepped a few feet away to stare up at a painting on the wall.

 

“No more games,” he said quietly. “No more hiding... I have a working theory about you, Delilah, would you like to hear it?”

 

Pursing her lips, she chewed on the inside corner of her mouth as she stared up at the back of his head. “Yes, doctor.”

 

“Travis Bloom committed a flagitious act against you, and you responded in a way you saw fit... These episodes of yours are likely attributed to your ingrained perceptions of right and wrong. You committed a murder, Delilah, and deep down you regret–”

 

“Wrong, already,” she breathed.

 

Hannibal stood stock-still for what felt like an eternity, before his hands slowly fell from his pockets and he turned around to face her; she was mildly disquieted to find he looked rather menacing just then, with his front swathed in darkness as the flames twitched and jolted in the hearth just behind him. He stilled again and she shakily rose from her seat.

 

“I was... mentally present the entire time,” she finally said, her level tone belying the nervousness she felt in the pit of her stomach, as she cautiously moved toward him. “...And I regret nothing.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

“ _Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.”_

 

– _Edgar Allan Poe_

 

 

_ **Chapter 10** _

 

 

_ 21 August 2016 _

 

_Three days._

 

_It had been three days of numbness. Three days of pretending._

 

_Hand-shaped bruises littered Delilah Bloom's body, but only in places hidden beneath the fabric of her clothes; he’d been careful enough to make sure of that. In the wee hours of the morning, Delilah had resolved to tell her mother what Travis had done. If she didn’t believe her, even with all the physical evidence, then she would leave Maryland and never look back. She had thought to tell Alana first, but quickly changed her mind – her sister could find out later, when the police were dragging that son of a bitch to jail._

 

_Without a car, the trek to Aberdeen was a lengthy process. Two bus rides, two rail car rides, a fair bit of walking, and three and a half hours later, Delilah found herself standing at the front door of her childhood home. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she reached a trembling hand into her purse and fished out her key, pressing it into the lock and gingerly stepping inside. She hadn't set foot in this house in nearly a decade, and the memories that came flooding back instantly made her feel sick._

 

“ _M-Mom?” She called out, quietly at first._

_Clearing her throat, she called a little louder, “Mom –” The sudden whir of a circular saw made her jump, and she whipped around to face the direction of the sound – the garage._

 

_So, Travis was home... but where was her mother?_

 

_A glance at the grandfather clock in the living room told her it was 11:35AM._

_Cautiously, she moved through the rest of the house, eyes peeled for the woman in question, only to find every room in the house was empty; it was Monday, a work day, but she knew they were still on vacation for at least another week._

 

_Just as she was creeping back downstairs, the landline they still kept began to ring and her heart leapt into her throat. The racket of power tools continued in the distance, and she poised herself on the landing to flee if they stopped, as the phone rang precisely six times before switching to voicemail._

 

_'Hey, it's me,' she heard her mother's weary voice. 'I'm not gonna be home until late... probably sometime tonight. Barbra's husband was in some kind of accident at work, and she needs someone to take her to the hospital. He's all the way up in Scranton, so... I-I'll call you when we get there... Please don't be mad. Love you. Bye.'_

 

_Delilah swallowed thickly as she glared in the direction of the garage, her feet suddenly propelling her forward without realizing what she was doing. She made her way through the kitchen and stopped at the door leading into the garage, hesitating for only a moment before gripping the doorknob tight and twisting it as silently as she could. She pulled the door open and found Travis hunched over what she figured was probably some crappy new project, completely unaware of her presence. He stopped then and she held her breath, watching wide-eyed as he stretched his back a bit and, without bothering to glance around at his surroundings, reached out to his left to switch on a small radio; he then picked up a rectangle of sandpaper and continued with his project._

 

_Some stupid talk radio show sounded from the speakers and Delilah very carefully backed out of the doorway._

_She fully intended to leave. Honestly, for one full second, she was going to walk away and out of the house, to make the ridiculous pilgrimage back to her cozy little apartment in Baltimore. She told herself she could try to talk to her mother another day..._

 

_But she couldn’t leave._

 

_It didn’t feel right._

 

_How could he just sit there, going about his day, without a care in the world, after what he had done to her?_

 

_It wasn’t right._

 

_Hesitating in the kitchen, her eyes caught a glint of something metal – something sharp._

_A large, expensive, stainless steel kitchen knife was laying precariously on the edge of the sink. Delilah raked her teeth over her bottom lip and glanced back at Travis, just to be sure he was still distracted; confident that he was, she tiptoed sideways and snatched up the knife. Gripping the handle tight, she watched the light reflect off the blade and bounce around upon the wall as she tested the weight of it._

 

_Now, this felt right; made her feel strong._

 

…

 

“No, no. Delilah, focus,” Hannibal said, his stern voice tugging her back from her memories. She blinked away from the wall to focus on him again, and stepped forward to stand just two feet before him. A movement caught her attention in her peripheral and she looked down to find his hands clenched into fists, his thumbs jerkily scrubbing against the sides of his index fingers.

 

“... Are you upset with me?” She asked softly, looking up to watch his narrowed eyes relax some, just as his movements stilled. He shook his head once, but his lips stayed in a hard line and she found it difficult to fully believe him. “I know it's... wrong. I-I know. I k–“ Her voice faltered and she had to take a deep breath. “I... killed him –”

 

Hannibal's lips suddenly twisted into a bemused smirk and he took a small step forward. “You think I'm going to chastise you for ridding the world one less piece of filth?”

 

“Aren't you?”

 

“No,” he replied, moving forward again and bringing himself close enough that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She swayed a little with the effort, her head swimming from the alcohol, and his hands reached out to hold her hips, keeping her steady.

 

“B-But I'm a monster,” she muttered, shaking her head even as the words left her lips. She didn't believe it, but she was supposed to – right? “It felt... _good_ to kill him. That's wrong... right?”

 

“By society's standards, I suppose,” he replied flippantly.

 

“And by God's... _'Thou shalt not –_ '”

 

Hannibal interrupted her with a light scoff. “Have you read the Bible, Delilah?”

 

“No.”

 

“God himself has killed since the beginning.” He trailed a hand up her curves and hooked his fingers at the nape of her neck, absently tracing her jawline with his thumb as he continued. “Manipulated others into committing murder, and other atrocities, in his name... Seldom does he bother to save those who _don't_ deserve to die...

 

“Killing must feel good to God, too. Perhaps it's one of the few activities one can partake in to bring themselves closer to him.”

 

“...I don't want to be closer to God. I'm not even sure I believe in such a thing.”

 

Delilah watched the corner of his mouth quirk upward, his tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip as he regarded her. His other hand skirted up over her hip to splay across the small of her back, and her hands found his sides, gripping fistfuls of his shirt. “Kiss me,” she insisted, tugging on his shirt to bridge the gap between them.

 

Canting his head, he leaned down and just barely brushed his lips against hers. “Tell me how you killed him,” he whispered against her cheek, before pressing his lips to her flushed skin. She huffed a little and swiftly leaned up on her toes, turning her head to catch his lips herself. His fingers dug hard into her, pinning her to him as he took the reins and deepened the kiss. He released her mouth much too soon and she whimpered as he dipped his head to rumble in her ear, “Answer me, Delilah.”

 

…

 

_The sensation of the knife slipping into his back was bizarre. There was resistance, but not much; the blade had recently been sharpened, it seemed. When she pulled her hand back, the knife still firmly in her grasp, Travis let out an almighty gasp and swung around. He opened his mouth, presumably to scream, but seemed to be choking..._

 

_Strange, clicking gasps escaped him, before blood began to intermittently spray from his mouth. Delilah watched in fascination as he began swatting blindly at his back, and lifted the wet blade up so he could see it clearly. His already wide eyes bulged out of their sockets and he lunged at her like a drunken grizzly bear; she staggered back a step or two, then threw herself forward and slammed the knife into his throat._

 

_At that, he let out a funny little squeaking gurgle and reeled back, and this time she let him take the knife with him as he crashed backward onto the concrete. Wiping a stray spray of blood from her arm, she stepped toward his twitching body and grabbed the handle of the knife again. His fearful eyes were haphazardly darting about, and she watched them with mild interest as she began rocking the blade from side to side._

 

“ _Do you think you'll go to hell for what you've done,” she asked curiously, “or heaven because I've killed you?”_

 

_Travis didn't respond, of course, though his eyes did try to focus on her as she spoke. Ripping the blade out of his throat, she turned her face away as copious amounts of blood then gushed from the wound, and watched out the corner of her eye as he jerked and spluttered for far longer than she would have expected. With another couple desperate twitches, he finally stilled completely and she grinned._

 

…

 

“No, come back to me.”

 

Delilah yelped as she suddenly felt herself being jostled around, and blinked rapidly to find Hannibal gripping her shoulders and staring down at her face. “There you are,” he muttered, his tone mildly irritated.

 

“I'm–“

 

“Stop. Do not apologize; I won't tell you again.” He took a slow breath and loosened his grip on her, running his hands up and down her arms. “You must stop punishing yourself for this. You did what needed to be done.”

 

“ _'What needed to be done?'_ ” She laughed in bewilderment. “Maybe the st-stabbing can be seen as-... as temporary insanity for what he did to me, but I didn't stop there – I think you know that.”

 

“So?”

 

“...So?”

 

“Yes, so? It's called catharsis, Delilah, everyone needs an outlet.”

 

“Catharsis... _An outlet?_ ”

 

“Have you turned into a cockatoo?”

 

Delilah could only stare at him for a long moment, before suddenly erupting into an involuntary fit of giggles. She slid down, out of his grip, to kneel on the floor and buried her face in her hands; tears of laughter fast dissolved into tears of frustration as she fought to control herself. This wasn't good – maniacal laughter was something crazy people did.

 

“I'm not c-crazy,” she whispered into her palms, more so trying to convince herself than Hannibal; she heard him clear his throat then, and peeked through her fingers to find him crouched down in front of her.

 

“Of course not. You're just a bit tipsy,” he assured her firmly, and another giggle bubbled up from her chest just as a loud hiccup took over. She pried her hands away from her face to discover he was holding a glass of water.

 

“Th-than-k yo-u,” she struggled to speak through yet more hiccups, shaking hands reaching out to take the glass.

 

He immediately pulled the water just out of her reach. “Take a deep breath and hold it,” he instructed, and she sucked in a breath at once, mashing her lips together as she stared at him. “Now swallow it.”

 

Quirking a brow in confusion, she stretched her chin out a bit and awkwardly tried to swallow. The motion prompted her to force air out of her nose and she momentarily feared she would pass out, her mouth falling open to take several deep breaths to stymie the sensation. Once she'd caught her breath, she yawned softly and looked around, waiting. Silence followed and she smiled a little, as she realized her hiccups were gone.

 

“Neat trick,” she muttered, and he merely smirked.

 

“Drink. Slowly,” he said, offering her the glass of water again; she nodded and took a few small, careful sips as he leaned back on his heels to watch her.

 

When she'd finished the glass, he took it and helped her to her feet, guiding her by the hand back to the chair behind the desk and nudging her into it. “I hadn't accounted for you being a lush,” he teased, pouring the last of the water into the glass and handing it back to her, before tugging his own seat closer and sitting down; their knees were touching now and he laid his deliciously toasty hands over her exposed lower thighs.

 

“Oh, Delilah,” he sighed thoughtfully, sliding his fingertips along the hem of her dress. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

Delilah peered over her glass of water at him and suggestively brushed her foot against his calf. “I may have a few suggestions...”

 

He offered a lopsided smile in return and slipped his thumbs up under her dress, sending shocks of electricity through her... before tugging the hem flat and smoothing the fabric against her legs; she scowled as he then pulled his hands away and leaned back heavily in his seat, but said nothing.

 

After a long silence and another half a glass' worth of water gone, Hannibal spoke, his tone more professional now. “If I am pushing you too far, you may say so at any time and we will stop for today. However, I would like to continue... if that's alright with you?”

 

Tapping her nails against the glass in her hands, Delilah sighed and hooked her ankles together as she nestled back in her seat. “Fine by me.” She shrugged, taking another swig of water before setting it on the desk and laying her hands in her lap.

 

“You said that you regret nothing – explain.”

 

“... Explain what? I meant what I said. I do not regret what I've done.”

 

“So you would do it again, then? If Travis were here, alive, right now?”

 

“Well, no... It was quite a messy process; wouldn't want to soil your nice things.”

 

That garnered a chuckle from him and he rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, dropping his chin to his knuckles as he observed her thoughtfully. “Delilah... Thinking back on the day I visited you in the hospital, do you recall what I assumed your diagnosis to be?”

 

“Post-traumatic stress disorder? Yes, I remember.”

 

“Right, and you said to me that you couldn't recall having been through any trauma.”

 

“Yes...?” She squinted at him in confusion, genuinely unsure as to where he was going with this train of thought. “What, um–”

 

“Delilah.” He sighed exasperatedly, stretching his hand up over his cheek to massage his temple. “You murdered a man you'd known your entire life, a man who was meant to be your father figure, who raped you... And yet, you still don't believe you've been through any trauma?”

 

“... Which part am I supposed to be traumatized by, exactly?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Lecture Hall #3_

_Quantico, VA_

_\- 4:47 PM_

 

“I brought you some coffee.”

 

Will's eyes shot up from his desk to find Alana awkwardly loitering in the doorway, with a small paper cup from the cafeteria clutched in her hands; he watched a couple of students duck around her to leave, and suddenly the room felt somehow more crowded as he realized they were alone. Needlessly shuffling papers around, he nodded jerkily and watched her out the corner of his eye, listening to the echoing click of her heels as she moved into the room. She stepped right around the desk and leaned her hip against it, pinning a page to the surface – one he was planning to fiddle with to avoid eye contact – as she offered him the coffee.

 

“Er, thanks,” he mumbled, gingerly plucking the cup from her hands and immediately setting it on the desk. “Just one? Are we doing sharesies or –”

 

“I can't stay long... Delilah'll probably be home soon and I was gonna pick us up something to eat.”

 

“Ah.” Will kept his eyes fixed on the piece of paper wedged under her hip, finding he wanted it more now that he couldn't actually pick it up. “So, uh... bye, then?”

 

Alana sighed and shifted against his desk a bit – though, not enough to free the damn piece of paper. “I said I couldn't stay long, not that I had to take off right this second.”

 

“O...kay...”

 

Something shuffled around in his peripheral and he forced himself not to look for the dead man he knew would be there, instead quickly removing his glasses and digging his fingers into his eyes.

 

 _'My name is Will Graham,'_ he thought firmly. _'I'm in Quantico, Virginia, and it's...'_ He squinted down at his watch, taking care to be as inconspicuous as possible as he studied the face of the clock. _'Four... fifty-two... in the afternoon... My name is Will Graham...'_

 

He heard Alana sniff lightly, prompting him to finally look over at her as he shoved his glasses back onto his face; she had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips in a hard line as she scowled at the board behind him. Her eyes looked a little glossy and he cleared his throat, unsure how to proceed.

 

Just as he was about to make some sort of attempt to ask what was wrong, she stepped away from the desk and threw her arms in the air. “I cannot believe Jack is investigating my sister!” She exclaimed, slapping her hands to her sides and shooting him what he perceived to be an accusatory glare.

 

“H-Hey now,” he stammered, seizing the opportunity to grab the paper from the edge of his desk and carefully threading it into the pile he'd already made. “I didn't tell him to do that. You know I tried to dissuade–”

 

“I know that,” she snapped. “God damn it, Will, of course I know that.”

 

Will felt an uncomfortable twisting in his stomach, and he abruptly turned away to locate his briefcase. “I know it-it's disconcerting but just... don't worry, okay?”

 

“ _Don't worry?_ ” She repeated coldly. “Oh, gosh, thanks. Yeah, that's totally helpful.”

 

Snatching his briefcase up from the floor, he slammed it on his desk, yanked it open, and began blindly cramming things into it. “What the hell do you want from me, Alana?” He caught sight of the coffee cup he'd somehow managed to not knock over, and picked it up to take an angry swig; he grimaced at the taste of the lukewarm swill, but forced the mouthful down before chucking the cup into the trash.

 

Alana laughed then, sounding a touch manic, and the – admittedly paranoid – thought that she had poisoned his coffee suddenly crossed his mind, as he whipped around to face her.

 

Tears glittered like little dewdrops at the corners of her eyes, as she stared at him with morose amusement. “Sorry... Took me about fifteen minutes to work up the nerve to come in,” she explained quietly, clearing her throat as she rubbed her arms. “I just-... I just need someone to talk to. I'm scared for her, Will.”

 

He frowned and chewed on the corner of his mouth as he regarded her, before tentatively inching forward and twitching his arms open to offer a hug. Alana crumpled against him at once and buried her face in his shoulder; he froze briefly before resting his hands on her upper back, nervously patting her shoulder blades as he muttered lamely, “It-It's gonna be okay...”

 

“I just don't kn-know what he thinks he's going to find.” She sniffed loudly and turned her face outward, flipping a bit of her hair into his mouth in the process. Will reached up to flick the strands away from his lips, then smoothed her hair down against the back of her head.

 

“Listen,” he tried again, “unless you have reason to think she had a hand in any of this –”

 

“Absolutely not!”

 

“Then... who cares?”

 

Alana scoffed and pushed herself away from him. “ _I care!_ You know how obsessed Jack can get, when he gets an idea in his head.”

 

He couldn't immediately find a way to argue with that, so he tried another tactic. “But-... But it doesn't matter how obsessed he gets, because he won't find any evidence. We both know she didn't do this; it's ludicrous to even think –”

 

“It fucking matters because she is _unstable_ , Will. How do you think someone with Dissociative episodes is going to handle being investigated by the goddamned FBI?”

 

Will clamped his mouth shut and scrubbed a hand over his face; he knew she had a very real point. He didn't presume to know Delilah all that well, but he couldn't imagine anyone would take the situation very lightly.

 

They stared off at opposite corners of the room for a long while, both deep in thought, before he finally formulated what he thought to be the only solution. “Why don't you just... be upfront with Jack? Tell him she has episodes a-and she's working on getting better?”

 

“But –”

 

“Alana, I know you want to keep her business hers... _now_ , anyway.” He'd muttered the last bit under his breath, but she let out an indignant huff that told him she'd heard. “ _However,_ ” he continued loudly before she could argue, “if Jack thinks you're hiding things from him, it's only going to fuel his interest. Just be as honest as you can and... and maybe he'll back off?”

 

Alana squinted at him for a long moment, looking thoroughly unconvinced, before her scowl finally lessened and she sighed. “I guess you're right,” she mumbled, groaning as she massaged her under eyes with her fingertips. “Alright, I'll talk to the dumb bastard.”

 

Will snorted as he resumed gathering his belongings. “Jeez, Alana, tell me how you really feel,” he mumbled, and she laughed, genuinely laughed, for the first time he'd heard in a while; he couldn't help but grin in return.

 

Just as he was securing his briefcase shut, she stepped up to his side and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, and he canted his head to face her though he couldn't quite bring himself to look her in the eye.

 

“I-It's nothing...”

 

She sighed gently and rubbed her thumb against his cheek, presumably to remove a smudge of the burgundy lipstick he could see coating her lips. “Glad to have you back. I missed you,” she said earnestly, giving his shoulder a squeeze before turning abruptly and stalking away.

 

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking up to watch her and Garrett Jacob Hobbs exit the lecture hall in tandem. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Hannibal Lecter's Office_

– _4:50 PM_

 

 

The ordinarily loquacious doctor found himself at a momentary loss for words, as he took in Delilah's clearly genuine confusion; she truly didn't understand, and in turn Hannibal himself didn't understand. If the sexual assault hadn't had any sort of lasting effect on her, and the fact that she had committed a murder hadn't, what could possibly be left?

 

_Unless..._

 

“Delilah, let's try word-association again.”

 

“...I thought you said no more games?”

 

“It is not only a game, it's a therapeutic exercise.”

 

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “Fucking semantics...”

 

Hannibal scowled. “I do realize you're still under the effects of the alcohol, but there's no need to be insolent.” Her face crumpled at that and she rubbed her nose, whispering an apology as she sat up straight. Tamping down his irritation, he shifted in his seat as well, and began straightaway.

 

“Retribution.”

 

She opened her mouth and abruptly snapped it shut, effectively gifting him the answer he sought. Licking his lips, he leaned forward in his seat and canted his head, silently willing her to look him in the eye; she did, after a moment's attempt at avoidance, her brow twisted with apprehension.

 

“You know you've done nothing wrong, don't you?” He asked quietly, though it was absolutely rhetorical. “That's why you don't regret. Your issues stem from your conscience, but not in the way I'd initially assumed; it's the potential ramifications of your actions spurring your subconscious'... penance, so to speak.” He had to grin at his own incredibly apropos terminology – given she'd strung the worthless man up like Christ, how could he not make good use of Christian phrasing?

 

Delilah fell silent and he watched as she nervously dug her manicured nails into her thighs. “I'm supposed to... feel guilty, aren't I?” Her voice was hardly above a whisper now, and he glanced up to find her eyes shimmering, pleading with him for an absolution she didn't seem to realize he had already given. “There must be something... _wrong_... with me. Deep down, I-... I'm wrong?”

 

Hannibal took a deep breath and shook his head, looking her square in the eye as he replied with utmost conviction, “No, Delilah, there is _nothing_ wrong with you.”

 

“But –”

 

“You have a rare gift. The ability to see past what has been pointlessly ingrained in you from infancy. Delilah, sometimes, some people simply need to die –”

 

“But I didn't _just_ kill him, Hannibal!” She wailed, suddenly jumping to her feet and shoving her chair back in frustration; he watched it sail across the room, but thankfully fall short of denting his wall, and stayed rooted to his seat as he casually turned his attention back up to her.

 

“I know perfectly well what you did,” he replied. “You fashioned a striking portrait from essentially nothing – inarguably elevating Travis Bloom to something more, in death, than he would have ever amounted to in life.”

 

“I took him apart,” she ground out through clenched teeth. He watched her stuff her fingers into her hair in frustration, knocking a few pins out of place as she began to pace before him. “I-I watched him bleed out, watched the light leave his eyes, and then I spent fucking _hours_ cutting him into pieces – with his own power tools, no less. I used rope and a nail gun to _crucify_ him, for fuck's sake –”

 

“I would have liked to see that.”

 

Delilah froze and turned to blink at him; he watched her struggle for a response before he cleared his throat and urged her to continue. “What then? After you constructed your tableau, what did you do?”

 

“I... I took his useless heart and I wrapped it up in plastic shopping bags... And I left it on the kitchen counter while I went upstairs to shower.”

 

“How did you get upstairs without tracking blood all over the house?”

 

“There's, um, a sink near the washing machine... I attached a hose to the faucet and rinsed off what I needed to – the tools, most of the garage floor, and my legs and feet; I dried off with a shop towel, then went upstairs.”

 

“Smart,” he replied, nodding absently as he filed away each little detail in his mind. “What did you do with the towel?”

 

“Burned it in the fireplace, along with my clothes... Then I cleaned it out, and took an outfit from the back of my mother's closet to leave in.”

 

Hannibal found himself rather impressed. “And what did you do with the ashes?”

 

“... Ashes?”

 

“From the fireplace.”

 

“Oh... I put them in a bag and dumped them in the trash outside a neighbor's house, down the road a ways.”

 

Hannibal leaned back in his seat and laced his fingers together over his stomach. “It seems you thought of everything... Though, I must say it was incredibly dangerous to commit yourself to such an arduous task, not knowing precisely when your mother would be home.”

 

“I didn't exactly plan it ahead of time...”

 

“Yes, and that was your first mistake.”

 

Delilah simply stared at him, quite obviously dumbfounded, before cautiously stepping toward him. “I-... You really don't think I did anything wrong?”

 

“The only thing I _know_ you did wrong, Delilah, was not think it through beforehand. Though you did live in the house once upon a time, it was well-known that you and he didn't have the best relationship; it would have been rather peculiar for the authorities to discover one of your shiny, golden hairs at the scene...

 

“Most assaults and murders are committed by someone who knows the victim, statistically speaking – either as far removed as a mere acquaintance, or as close as a family member. Frankly, you're damned lucky you weren't targeted as a suspect.”

 

“Oh, I was.”

 

“...Is that so?”

 

Delilah nodded and smoothed her hands together as she continued forward. “A few days after the... incident... Some cops came to the café and started asking me all sorts of questions – you know, about Travis, the last time I saw him, and such.

 

“They asked if I had an alibi for that day and I just blurted out that I'd been working; they asked if anyone would corroborate, and I said Maggie was the owner, so... They took her aside to question her, too. Then they came back, said they were sorry for my 'loss,' and for bothering me, and told me to call the local police if I heard of anything pertaining to his murder... And that was it.”

 

Hannibal quirked a brow in disbelief. “You mean to tell me Maggie lied for you?”

 

“Yes... When I spoke to her after they'd gone, she said she just told them it was a Monday, so I was definitely working that day; she didn't even ask me what it was about... just told me she loved me, and left it at that.”

 

“... Absurdly lucky, my dear.”

 

Delilah smiled ruefully as she stopped just before him, gently prying his hands apart so she could lower herself sideways onto his lap. “I know,” she replied, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip as she fiddled with his tie.

 

His hand shot forward of its own volition and he gripped the back of her neck, urging her head down level with his so he could whisper a warning in her ear. “Next time, you will be sure not to leave so many loose ends...” He ran his tongue along the shell of her ear, feeling her shiver as he then brushed his lips across her cheek to place a small kiss to the corner of her mouth.

 

“N-Next time?” She whispered, sounding marginally frightened even as she gripped his tie in her fists and turned her head just enough to fit her lips with his.

 

Hannibal indulged himself in a decidedly predatory grin before biting down on her plump lower lip – just hard enough to issue a squeak of surprise from her, and possibly a little more. She then moaned obscenely against his mouth and he shifted both hands to grip her sides, lifting her up and maneuvering her body with ease; he twisted her around to face him directly and she sandwiched her legs on either side of his lap at once, gripping tight to his shoulders as she lowered herself down firmly. She found his lips again with an endearing eagerness, and he relished in the taste of a sweetness that was all her own, which mingled pleasantly with the hint of watered down absinthe that coated her tongue.

 

This flirtatious little dance of theirs had gone on long enough for his liking, and he wanted nothing more than to hike her dress up and make her scream his name beside the dying fire.

 

-

 

Heat rushed through Delilah's veins, setting every nerve ending on fire as she dug her nails into Hannibal's shoulders and ground herself against the bulge she could easily feel pressing against his slacks. She felt his hands glide firmly down her curves to dip under her dress, bunching the fabric and trying to urge it over her hips. Leaning her weight on her knees, she lifted up to assist him and her lips tickled as he chuckled softly against her mouth; his hands were already gripping her bare ass and he was clearly amused to have found she wasn't wearing anything under her ridiculously formfitting dress.

 

Delilah pried her lips from his to catch her breath, unable to remove a self-satisfied grin from her face as her hands dove to undo his belt.

 

“Not so fast,” he chided, suddenly rising from his seat and taking her with him. She yelped and clung to him as he spun them around, and she heard him shove a few things out of his way before depositing her on the cool surface of his desk and plucking her arms from around his shoulders. “Hands flat on the desk,” he instructed, and she did so at once, leaning back to rest her palms just behind herself as he then began to casually loosen his tie.

 

A thrill of excitement sent a tingle up her spine as she watched him with rapt attention. He seemed to be studying every inch of her, as if trying to burn the image of her, half-naked on his desk, into his memory. She slowly began to spread her legs and raked her teeth over her bottom lip, pausing and wincing some as she felt a sudden twinge; pressing a hand to her lips, she peered down at her fingers to find a small smear of blood.

 

Evidently he'd cut her lip when he'd bitten her earlier, and she was only slightly surprised to realize the knowledge only served to fuel her desire. “Please,” she asked softly, parting her legs further as she reached out to beckon him near.

 

He finally removed his tie and tossed it aside before slowly stepping between her legs; holding her gaze, he took her hand and slipped her fingers past his lips, gently laving the blood from her skin.

 

“So sweet,” he muttered, as he released her hand and lowered himself to his knees before her.

 

“Wha-” Her eyes widened in understanding as he suddenly hooked his strong arms under her legs and yanked her hips forward, situating her so she was seated at the very edge of his desk.

 

Shifting her palms to better steady herself, she watched in fascination as he splayed his strikingly large hands over her inner thighs, her chest heaving with panting breaths as she felt his thumbs trace lightly up and down her folds. He hummed as one may when presented with a particularly decadent dessert, and she felt her face burn as the reality of her situation dawned on her:

 

He was her _psychiatrist_ – a man to whom she'd just confessed that she'd butchered someone without remorse – and now he was digging his fingertips into her thighs, planting searing kisses along her skin, nipping at her labia– “Oh!” She threw her head back and keened softly, toes curling as he licked and kissed at the tender spot he'd bitten, before he mirrored his actions on the other side.

 

Just when she thought he would focus his attentions where she needed them most, he skipped over her clit entirely and flicked his tongue back down again, causing her to wail in frustration. She didn't think she could take much more teasing, and as a ringing sounded in her ears she initially thought it was only in her head.

 

Without warning or preamble, Hannibal suddenly dove his tongue deep inside her, his thumb finding and roughly massaging her clit as he redoubled his ministrations. Crying out a string of half-finished obscenities, she threaded the fingers of one hand through his satin soft hair and held on tight as her body trembled under his efforts.

 

The ringing persisted and she vaguely understood it was a cell phone – hers, perhaps? – but she couldn't bring herself to care, and he didn't stop until she was screaming his name to the ceiling. Gasping for breath, she released her death grip on his hair and sank back flat against the desk; the moment she felt him back away, her legs snapped shut and she squeezed her thighs together, hips rocking of their own accord as she rode the aftershocks to bring herself back down.

 

As the pesky cell phone finally stopped ringing, she lazily opened her eyes and found herself momentarily disoriented. The entire room was upside down and it took a moment to comprehend that her head was hanging partially off the opposite end of the desk.

 

“Oof, jeez,” she muttered, hands trying to find purchase on the smooth surface beneath her to lift herself up. Hannibal was hovering over her in an instant, hooking an arm around her waist while cradling her head with his other hand and pressing a tender kiss to her lips as he guided her up. She could taste an intimately familiar tang on his tongue that she didn't find entirely unpleasant – though he did appear to have wiped his face and for that she was appreciative.

 

Just as they broke apart and Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, the ringing started up again and she huffed in annoyance. “That's mine, isn't it,” she grumbled, scowling when he simply nodded in reply. He offered her his arm and she took it gratefully, allowing him to help her down from the desk. Tugging her dress back over her hips, she reluctantly fetched her purse and unearthed her cell phone, not at all surprised to see Alana's name in bold letters on the screen.

 

Tapping her thumb on the green button, she took a second to clear her throat before answering with what she hoped to be a casual, “Hey.”

 

“Hey yourself,” Alana snapped. “Did you pass out or something?”

 

“Mm, no. I'm still at Doctor Lecter's office.”

 

“What? It's almost six, why aren't you home yet?”

 

Delilah felt the man in question suddenly step up behind her to slip his arms around her waist and place a kiss to the hollow below her free ear. She grinned and reached behind herself to teasingly brush her palm along the tightly stretched fabric of his trousers, and she felt a low growl rumble in his chest.

 

“Is everything okay?” Alana asked, her voice edging dangerously toward that high-pitch it always did when she was trying not to panic.

 

“I'm f-... uh, fine,” she replied, trying to focus as Hannibal nipped and licked at her neck. “Session was just really, um... involved today; we didn't even notice the time. Sorry to freak you out.”

 

“It's alright. I'm easily freaked out these days.“ She sighed heavily. “Well, I'll just come pick you up, then.”

 

“Sure, that'd be great.”

 

“I'll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

 

“Okay, thanks.”

 

Delilah hung up the phone and tossed it into her purse, letting it drop to the floor as she leaned her head back against Hannibal's shoulder and closed her eyes. He planted open-mouthed kisses along her neck before catching her earlobe between his teeth and gently biting down. “Mmh,” she moaned softly, stretching her arms up and loosely gripping the back of his neck. She felt his hands lay flat against her stomach, one skirting upward to cup her breast as the other kept her cemented against him.

 

“...Huh, déjà vu,” she muttered, arms falling to her sides and eyes fluttering open to gaze at the deep red wall on the opposite side of the room.

 

“I'm fairly certain I've never fondled you in this particular spot before,” he replied quietly, chuckling against her ear as he then removed his hands from her body and began plucking bobby pins from her hair. She knew her meticulously crafted hairdo must look like a rat's nest by now, complete with an ungodly number of tangles, but she never once felt any pain as he carefully removed each and every one.

 

When he was finished he leaned over her shoulder and held his palm out flat in front of her. “I have counted exactly twenty-one of these,” he informed her, depositing the small pile of metal into her hands.

 

“Sounds about right. You'll probably find a stray in the coming days,” she replied with a snort. “Or months... Hell, maybe even years from now.” Crouching down to drop the bobby pins into a small compartment of her purse, she fished out a hair elastic and quickly raked her fingers through her curls before tying them up into a half-assed bun.

 

Stretching as she stood, she turned to face him only to discover he was gone. A light suddenly switched on to her right and she whirled around to find him in the process of turning on all the lamps. Rather than simply watch him, she crossed the room to turn the desk lamp on and began gathering the bottles and glasses onto the silver serving tray; he finished flooding the office with unpleasant false light and took the tray from her hands, offering a small smile of gratitude before stalking off to stow it away in the back room.

 

When he returned, his shirt sleeves were rolled back down and buttoned properly, and he set about redoing his tie as she collected his suit jacket. “Thank you,” he said quietly, slipping it over his arms and adjusting it to fit just right.

 

Delilah smiled and adjusted the collar of his shirt, smoothing it flush over the neck of his tie. “Wish we had more time...” She sighed wistfully, running her hands over his lapels before leaning up on her toes to kiss him one last time; he indulged her for a moment before pulling back and caressing her cheek.

 

“Soon,” he said simply, doubling back to gather her shoes. She took the pumps and slipped them onto her feet, watching him roll his personal chair back behind his desk before returning the spare to its proper spot.

 

Just as she was adjusting her bra and rechecking that the hem of her dress was down as far as it would go, a knock sounded at the door and the pair glanced up.

 

“What impeccable timing,” Hannibal muttered, moving to guide her to the door and scooping up her purse along the way; she hooked it over her shoulder and whispered a particularly loaded 'thank you' that had absolutely nothing to do with her purse. Hannibal winked before dipping down to murmur in her ear, “This Sunday, I beg of you not to wear this dress – or anything remotely similar... I won't be able to keep my hands off you, if you do, and that would be highly inconvenient.”

 

Delilah bit her tongue and offered her best innocent face. “Sweatpants, then. Got it.”

 

With a light snort, Hannibal pulled the door open and offered Alana a pleasant smile. “Hello, Alana.”

 

“Hey-” She stopped abruptly and stared wide-eyed at Delilah, clearly taken aback by her ensemble. “What in the hell are you wearing?”

 

No one could ever accuse Alana Bloom of being one to mince words.

 

“Clothes, Alana,” she replied coolly, and her sister scoffed in return.

 

“Barely.”

 

“I had a date, if you must know,” Delilah lied quickly. “Before my appointment. Went a little longer than expected; no time to change.”

 

“Uh-huh... Why didn't you-... With _who_?”

 

Finding herself deeply irritated at the sheer disbelief in Alana's tone, Delilah narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to snap at her, but Hannibal cut her off with a loud and purposeful clearing of his throat. “It seems you two have much to discuss, and I have a few things to tend to myself. If you'll please...” He gestured them toward the stairs and Delilah stepped out of the office, amused that he could manage to stay so polite while effectively kicking them out.

 

Alana stared at her for a long moment before shaking herself out of her stupor and looking to Hannibal. “Right... Good night, Hannibal.”

 

“Pleasant dreams,” he replied quietly, and Delilah had to bite her lip to tamp down a self-conscious titter.

 

They started toward the steps as Hannibal shut the door to his office, Alana's eyes darting pointedly over at her every step of the way; halfway down the stairs, she became entirely fed up and stopped abruptly. “ _What_ , Alana?”

 

“I just-... Are you bleeding?”

 

Delilah blinked and instinctively licked at her lower lip, feeling a light sting and tasting pennies. “Oh, yeah, uh...” She tried to think of a reasonable explanation, but came up woefully short, her cheeks burning as she shifted her purse to her other shoulder just for something to do.

 

Alana suddenly laughed and threw an arm around her, dragging her down the stairs as she muttered teasingly, “Must have been one hell of a date.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I just wanted to briefly apologize for how long it's taken me to update. Life gets in the way, but rest assured this story has not been – and will not be – abandoned. Sometimes, it may just take me a bit longer than usual to upload a chapter. This one is a bit longer than the others. I hope that makes up for it... maybe? Thank you so much for reading!

_**Chapter 11** _

_The sound of bones being cut through with a handheld circular saw was unreasonably unpleasant – much too loud, and much too high a pitch. But it had to be done._

_Why it had to be done, Delilah couldn't honestly say; she just felt the need to take him apart._

_When a pile of parts were all that remained of Travis Bloom, she took up his head first and drilled a hole in the back with the largest bit she could find, grimacing as she waited for a majority of the gunk to ooze from the opening and splatter out onto the concrete; she then climbed up the step stool and finagled it onto a large hook that stuck out at the highest point of Travis' tool display. It had been strong enough to hang his chainsaw, and his thick head had no problem staying put._

_The trunk was the worst and most strenuous part of the entire ordeal. It took a lot of critical thinking and a hell of a lot more rope to finally get it situated just so beneath his head – but once it was in place, the rest was fairly simple. She positioned his arms, each in three pieces, to stretch out open at either side, using a hefty nail gun to affix his hands to the wall. The legs were another minor hassle, but after the torso ordeal, she decided to hack through his femurs and affix them in two parts each – much easier. Then came his lower legs, which she placed at a slight angle so she could nail his feet together with one folded over the other._

_Bits and pieces looked a little awkward and, as she stood back to observe her work, she watched his innards slowly slide out of his torso – but on the whole it was quite spectacular, in her opinion. Every muscle in her body was screaming for her to take a hot shower and at least a day-long nap, but as she began rinsing the blood and other nasty bits from her legs, a thought occurred to her..._

_Climbing back up the step stool, armed with a utility knife, she reached up under Travis' rib cage and carefully cut out his heart. His intestines suddenly lost their grip on themselves and unraveled, sliding down to hit the concrete with a sickening plop. Cautiously stepping back down, she set his heart on the work bench and peeled off her clothes before going back to rinsing off all she could think to – paying closest attention to her legs, feet, and anything she had touched. After drying herself off, she gathered her clothes and the towel, then picked up the heart and moved back into the kitchen to wrap it up in a few plastic bags she'd found stuffed in a drawer._

_Leaving the plastic-wrapped heart on the counter, she slowly moved to the living room to start a fire in the hearth; as she waited for it to catch, she suddenly found herself standing smack dab in the center of the garage again – fully clothed, with Travis twitching and bleeding out before her._

" _What the–"_

" _Oh, Delilah," a familiar voice sounded just beside her, and she whirled around to find Hannibal standing there, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at the dying man. "What have you done?"_

_Delilah frowned and looked back to Travis. "What do you mean? I thought you said this wasn't–"_

" _Wrong?" He interjected, and she nodded. "I'm not talking about that. Kill anyone your little heart desires, my dear, I would just rather you be more mindful with how you go about it."_

" _Mom left a voicemail saying she wouldn't be home until tonight..."_

_Hannibal sniffed lightly and checked his watch. "It's almost noon, which leaves you... how long, do you think?" She opened her mouth to reply, but came up short and he speculated for her. "Let's see... If Patricia is driving her friend to Scranton, it will take her three and half hours to get there without traffic; she will likely stay at least twenty minutes, to make sure everything is alright..._

" _So, I'd wager she'll be heading home during rush hour, which will tack another thirty to forty minutes onto her drive home..."_

" _So that leaves, what... eight hours?"_

_He shrugged. "Possibly."_

" _Well, it doesn't take me that long."_

" _How long does it take?"_

_Delilah watched Travis finally cease his twitching and sighed as she moved to retrieve the circular saw. "I think maybe... five hours? It's still daylight when I leave."_

" _Be that as it may, it's only by luck that you manage to pull this off," he reminded her sternly. "If you'd taken much longer, or happened to fall asleep..."_

" _I know."_

" _Or if traffic had been unexpectedly light –"_

" _I know," she repeated firmly, locating the saw and hefting it up as she turned to face him. Hannibal was crouched by the corpse now, moving it about to inspect it._

" _Good grief," he muttered, closely studying the stab wound in Travis' back. "Your knife slid in at the exact perfect spot to puncture a lung. Any higher or lower, you would have bounced off a rib, and I imagine things would have gone very differently."_

_She let out a frustrated growl and threw the power tool to the ground; it bounced once and disappeared, but she couldn't be bothered by that. "God damn it, Hannibal, I know! I was stupid, and lucky – and stupidly lucky! Trust me, I fucking get it. Would you quit riding me, already?"_

" _I am merely concerned," he replied with a frown._

" _...I'm sorry. I know," she whispered, stepping up beside him and absently threading her fingers through his hair. He hummed contentedly, rising to envelop her in his arms, and she hooked her own around his neck as she molded herself to him at once. He was so warm, and strong, and they fit together so perfectly._

_Never had she felt so safe._

" _You will do better next time," he said into the top of her head, and it was more a promise than a command._

_Delilah nodded and tightened her grip on him, digging her nails into his neck as she leaned up on her toes to find his lips. He swiftly captured her mouth with his, and suddenly they were rolling to the side and tumbling to the ground. Just as a loud slam echoed throughout the garage, her back hit the solid – yet strangely soft – concrete and the wind was abruptly knocked out of her._

" _Are you sleeping?" Hannibal suddenly asked, his voice warping into a bizarrely higher register than normal._

" _Wha-...?"_

"Delilah, it's four in the afternoon – get off of the floor!"

Delilah's eyes snapped open at once to find Alana leaning over the coffee table and squinting at her incredulously. Thoroughly disoriented, she gently rubbed at her eyes and blinked up at her surroundings; she realized, as she stared up from her place between the coffee table and couch, just how close she'd come to cracking her head open.

"Meh... Fell asleep; must'a fallen," she mumbled, grasping onto the table to heave herself up onto the couch. She yawned loudly, stretching out her back and groaning as she both felt and heard her spine crackle.

"Why are you so tired?" She asked, to which Delilah huffed and glared at her.

For all the complaining she did about her job and the people she served coffee to, it turned out having absolutely nothing of consequence to do with her time suited Delilah terribly. Vacations were for elderly people and parents on the verge of snapping because their children wouldn't stop whining – and no one could convince her otherwise. Over the last day and a half, while Alana was out, Delilah had washed, dried, and ironed every scrap of laundry she could find; Windex'd and Lemon-Pledge'd every square inch of the apartment; cleaned every dish; organized, then reorganized, all the cabinets – kitchen and bathroom alike; and had just finished sorting, alphabetizing, and re-shelving Alana's DVD collection approximately fifteen minutes prior to her arrival – which was when she'd decided she deserved a nap.

"I organized your dumb assortment of documentaries and I was so bored by the end of it I fell asleep," she grumbled teasingly.

Alana blinked at her for a long moment, then snorted and kicked off her shoes. "Wow, you need a hobby," she muttered, suddenly turning and rushing toward the hall.

Delilah scowled at her shoes, so flagrantly discarded in the middle of the living room, then glanced up to find her sister stripping off articles of clothing as she disappeared into her bedroom. "What the hell are you doing?" She hollered, gathering Alana's shoes and tossing them into the designated 'shoe corner' – which she'd only just decided was a thing – before quickly trailing after her.

"Will's car broke down," she explained unhelpfully, rifling through a sea of dull blue suits and even more boring blouses.

"And you're having a crisis because...?"

Alana paused and stared at her in disbelief. "Delilah, it's Sunday."

"Why, yes, it is," she replied sarcastically. "I'm happy to know you've learned the days of the- oh, duh!" She slapped a hand to her forehead, as the realization that Sunday meant dinner at Hannibal's dawned on her.

"Right, _duh,_ " her sister said with a huff, turning back to commence ransacking her closet.

Delilah fished her phone out of her pocket to check the time. "But it's not even four-"

"Are you deaf? I said Will's car died. Which means he needs a ride and you're either throwing something on and heading to Wolf Trap with me in less than ten minutes, or you're taking a cab."

"Both of those options sound grotesquely unpleasant... Like that outfit. Ew, what is that?" She stalked forward to snatch the olive drab abomination from Alana's hands.

"It's a friggin' dress- hey!" She yelped, watching as Delilah balled it up and flung it into a distant corner of the room.

"It's better suited to be a curtain in a nursing home. Come on," she insisted, grabbing Alana's arm and dragging her into her own room.

After a moment of searching, she unearthed an emerald, satin gown from the very back of her closet. "I found this on clearance and always meant to get it tailored... Ugh, it's so pretty." She sighed sadly, caressing the much too long, for herself, mermaid-flared hemline, before taking it off the hanger and holding it up to Alana's front. "Oh, yeah. Will's gonna piss himself when he sees you in this."

Alana scoffed and rolled her eyes, but took the dress without argument and stepped into it; as she pulled it up over her chest, she deftly removed her bra and pulled the halter strap over her head, tugging her hair up out of the way and turning so Delilah could zip her up.

"Halter dresses demand an updo," Delilah announced, forcibly guiding her over to her vanity and pushing her onto the bench. "So, did you call Doctor Lecter to let him know you might be late?" she asked, quickly running a brush through Alana's waves before beginning to wrap and pin them into a sleek chignon at the nape of her neck.

"Will already called him. Apparently, he said, 'the longer the lamb marinates, the more tender it will be,' so I don't think it matters how late we are."

"Oh good. You guys can have a quickie before-"

"Delilah!"

Snickering, she patted Alana's shoulders and stepped back. "I'm only teasing. Alright, you may go."

Alana admired her hair in the mirror before standing and smoothing the silky fabric over her hips. "So, you're taking a cab?"

"Absolutely. Do you really think I want to be stuck in the backseat while you two make googly eyes at each other? Please."

"Oh shut up." Alana rolled her eyes, grinning in spite of herself, and gave Delilah a playful shove before suddenly pulling her into a brief hug. "Thanks, sis."

With that, she turned to hurry out of the room and Delilah shouted after her, "You'd better wear higher heels than you wear to work with that dress – and a shawl, not a coat!"

"Got it!"

"And don't you dare think it's yours now. I want it back!"

"We'll see," Alana hollered back in a singsong, and Delilah laughed as she heard copious amounts of shuffling around, a few muttered curses, and then finally the front door slamming shut.

Shaking her head, Delilah smiled and returned to Alana's room to clean up the mess of clothes she'd painstakingly washed and hung up yesterday. Ordinarily, she'd be annoyed at the blatant lack of care her sister had shown, but she couldn't find it in herself to be too terribly upset. Over the course of one short month, their dynamic had changed so drastically it was a wonder neither of them had gotten whiplash; in fact, since starting therapy with Hannibal, most things in her life seemed to be going better than they had in years – her relationship with Alana was bordering on normal; she had found a new friend in Will; and, after their last session in particular, a weight had been lifted from her chest and she felt freer than she had in months.

As she took an excessively long shower, she thought back on that first afternoon that she and Hannibal had met. High-strung didn't begin to describe how she'd felt that day; Alana's hovering was fast beginning to rival the most helicopter-y of helicopter parents, and the countless therapists she'd had to slog through over the several months prior were wearing thin on her already far-stretched nerves. If she was honest with herself, Delilah had always been rather disturbed by her sister's sudden interest in her well-being. When they were children, she was just an added annoyance to everyone but their mother, but now that she'd gone off the deep end, apparently she was interesting.

If Alana had been working on her thesis for college at the time, she would have assumed the woman only wanted her around as a sick psychological experiment; being forced to look at pictures of Travis every time she came 'home' had initially been more torturous than her sister would ever know. She was constantly terrified, deep down, that she would spill some bit of information she wasn't supposed to know – or simply snap and outright confess – thereby getting herself incarcerated, or hidden away in a padded room somewhere.

 _'Your issues stem from your conscience...'_ Hannibal's words resonated in her mind, as she stepped out of the shower to towel off. _'It's the potential ramifications of your actions spurring your subconscious' penance, so to speak.'_

It was bizarre what a sentence spoken aloud could do for someone's psyche. She hadn't thought of it that way, but he must be right. "Is he ever not?" She muttered aloud, squeezing a dollop of leave-in conditioner onto her palm and working it into her hair. Her phone suddenly began to ring beside the sink and she stepped over to find a number she didn't recognize. Frowning, she accepted the call and switched it to speakerphone, bending over to gently scrunch the ends of her curls as she answered hesitantly, "Uh, hello?"

"Good afternoon, Delilah," Hannibal's voice poured from the speakers like warm champagne, catching her by surprise, and she could swear her heart stilled for a moment.

Clearing her throat, she straightened up much too quickly and pressed a hand to her forehead to wait for the subsequent dizzy spell to pass. "Oof."

"...Delilah?"

"Y-Yes, I'm here. Er, hi," she stammered, rolling her eyes at herself as she sat down on the edge of the tub and stared at the phone.

Hannibal chuckled softly, sending a delicious tingle up her spine as she listened to it echo in the small room. "I am calling to ask if I may pick you up for our dinner tonight."

As usual, it sounded more like he was informing her of a new development, rather than asking anything at all; her instinct was to assure him he didn't have to – but she knew he wouldn't accept that and she would concede eventually, anyway.

"Yes, please," she replied instead. "Saves me the trouble of having to deal with some karaoke-obsessed Lyft driver again..."

"Pardon?"

Delilah snorted and picked up the phone, taking it along as she moved to her room to get started on her makeup. "A few months ago, I decided to try a ride-share service and the guy forced me to sing karaoke with him the entire drive."

"Show tunes?" He inquired, his tone rife with amusement, and she scoffed.

"Oh, no. Thatwould have been tolerable... It was nineties pop hits. _'Chicago,'_ I can handle, but _'Hit Me Baby, One More Time'_?" She let out an audible shudder. "Please do – preferably over the head. I'd much rather be unconscious."

Hannibal laughed again and she scowled at the phone as she sat it on the vanity. "I'm sorry darling, but that is absolutely hilarious," he said, and her heart skipped again.

"I-It was _awful,_ " she insisted, trying her best to really drive home how miserable an experience it had been – though she couldn't stop smiling if her life depended on it. Had he actually called her _darling_ , or had she imagined that? Even after their tryst on Friday, and the times he'd called her something in Italian, his use of such a blatant pet name was entirely unexpected – she wasn't about to complain, though.

"Well, I promise I won't force you to sing in my car," he assured her, then added teasingly, "though I won't stop you if you choose to regale me with some hidden talent." She snorted as she rifled through her makeup drawer in search of primer and foundation.

"Oh Hannibal, trust me," she muttered, finding the products she sought and quickly sweeping primer over her face, "dying cats would serenade you better than I could ever hope to."

"Oh Delilah, if the dulcet sounds I've heard echo in my office are any indication, I beg to differ," he replied, and she hastened to apply foundation over the heat that flooded her cheeks.

"So, uh, wh-what time should I expect you?"

She heard him hum thoughtfully, as she set her buffed and blended foundation with loose powder and started on adding a light contour to bring life back into her pasty face. "Six should give you enough time to finish preening, I think."

"...Alana and Will probably won't arrive until seven, at the earliest."

"I'm aware," he said simply, and she pursed her lips to quash a titter of excitement.

"I'll be ready by six, then."

"Until then," he replied, hanging up at once.

Delilah blinked at her phone for several long moments, before dropping her makeup brush and snatching it up to save his personal number in her contacts; she debated saving him under a false name, but quickly decided against it. While she may have snooped in Alana's phone, just the once, it wasn't as though she made a habit of doing such a thing and she was fairly certain Alana wouldn't either.

"This won't end well, will it," she mumbled aloud, staring at the words _'Hannibal (Home)'_ on her phone screen.

Having an affair with her psychiatrist may well be the stupidest thing she could do, but she thought she'd be foolish to entertain the idea that any other man could have such a profound effect on her as Hannibal Lecter. There was a flawless balance of passion and tenderness in the way he touched her; a constant intensity in his eyes whenever he so much as glanced in her direction. She'd never experienced anything like it before and, while she could say with confidence that she was an attractive woman, Hannibal made her feel as though she were utter perfection – Aphrodite herself couldn't compare.

It was a singularly heady thing, and though her cheeks were so often sanguine whenever he was near, she found his fierce interest in her to be empowering rather than distressing. What they'd done on Friday afternoon could easily cost him his license, were anyone to find out, and yet _he'd_ initiated such intimacy; if Alana hadn't called, she was quite sure they would have ended up entangled on the Persian rug beside his desk.

Perhaps it was stupid, but she thought it absolutely moronic not to see this through – whatever it was, or may become. And so, with her nerves sufficiently squashed for the time-being, Delilah allowed herself to rekindle her excitement at the prospect of an hour alone with Hannibal, outside of his office, and swiftly returned to her ever-fastidious 'preening.'

...

At precisely 5:55 PM, Hannibal arrived at the apartment complex and began to pull into the space he'd last parked, the day he'd had an unconscious Delilah Bloom clinging to his arm. The glint of honey curls caught his eye and he glanced left to find her already making her way down the walk; he wasn't entirely prepared for the bizarre twinge he felt in his chest while watching her hips sway, as she slowly moved toward the aforementioned parking spot.

Absorbed in her phone, she hadn't yet noticed his presence, so he sped up and made a sharp u-turn, rolling down the passenger's side window as he crawled to a stop before her. He leaned over the center console and ducked his head to see her clearly, taking a moment to admire her knee-length, 50's style swing dress, before letting out a long, low wolf whistle. Her brow furrowed at once and her head snapped up, to presumably chastise whoever had dared, but her deadly gaze softened at once and a sweet rouge crept over the apples of her cheeks.

"You cad," she hissed with clearly feigned offense.

Grinning, he set the emergency brake and swiftly rounded the vehicle to greet her. "Forgive me," he insisted, taking her hand and bending to press a kiss to her knuckles; he straightened and gave her fingers a squeeze before releasing her. "Much too perfect an opportunity to pass up."

Delilah sighed exaggeratedly as she stuffed her phone into her purse and snapped it shut. "I suppose I can let it slide – just this once."

He chuckled softly and inclined his head, stepping back to hold her door open. As she moved past him to get in, he noticed the back of her deceptively plain black dress had a remarkably wide, lace-trimmed cutout, which plunged down in a v-shape that ended at the very base of her spine. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and splayed his hand flush against her exposed skin. She paused, one kitten-heeled pump already in the car, and peeked coyly over her shoulder at him. "What, is it too much?"

Hannibal slowly shook his head as he traced the scalloped edge of the lace with a single finger. The stark contrast of his tanned hand against her porcelain skin kicked his libido into high gear, and he had to focus on the roof of the car for a moment to collect himself. "Not at all," he replied quietly, bringing his attention back to her face. "You're stunning."

Her red-painted lips twisted into a smile and she turned to give him a brief kiss, quickly brushing her thumb across his mouth, to presumably remove any lipstick smears, then ducked into the car before he could reciprocate. He stared down at her as she buckled herself in, then gently shut the door and returned to his seat behind the wheel. After taking a glance in the rear view mirror to be sure she hadn't left any lipstick behind, he disengaged the emergency brake and smoothly pulled out of the lot.

They drove in ever-amicable quiet for several minutes before he leaned toward her slightly and – dutifully keeping his eyes on the road ahead – said in a conspiratorial tone, "Since we've an hour or more to ourselves, I leave the decision up to you..."

"Decision?" She repeated, eyeing him curiously.

He nodded, as he rolled to a stop at a red light, and turned to face her. "What shall we do with our time together?"

* * *

_Will Graham's Residence_

_346 Leigh Mill Rd., Wolf Trap, VA_

– _6:04 PM_

Heading up the driveway to Will's farmhouse, Alana chuckled lightly as she slowly pulled around his discarded Volvo, noting he'd left the hazard lights on – most likely for her benefit, she figured, as she was pretty sure he didn't entertain visitors enough to worry anyone else would crash into it. She slowed to a stop near the house and tapped the horn, her eyes fixed on the barn off to the right. Part of her wanted to go in and see the precise spot where Will had found her sister just weeks ago, but her urge to push forward from all the madness she'd dealt with regarding Delilah was much stronger. Hannibal's therapy truly seemed to be having a positive effect, and Alana hoped that soon enough they could put this entire mess behind them. It was wishful thinking, she knew – mental illness wasn't something that just went away... But she had noticed a marked change in her sister, specifically over the last few days. She seemed lighter, somehow. Hopefully, it was a sign that she was healing from whatever ailed her.

"Hey," Will's slightly muffled voice sounded just beside her and she jumped, turning to find him bent down and peering in at her; she cursed under her breath and rolled down the window.

"Hey, yourself," she said, surprised to find him clean-shaven for once. He was dressed in slacks and a nice, blue button down, and she couldn't help but notice what a great job it did of bringing out the colour in his eyes. "Look at you all cleaned up... You look nice."

"Thanks," he replied with an awkward chuckle. He held up a black tie and wiggled it at her before hooking it around his neck. "Could you help me? I don't really... make a habit of wearing these things."

Alana laughed and nodded, gesturing for him to step back before opening the door and stepping out.

"Wow," he muttered, his jaw dropping as he looked her up and down; he seemed to realize he was ogling and quickly turned away. "Y-You, uh... You look... wow, uh..."

Grinning, she snatched the tie from around his neck and wrapped it around her own. "If you keep muttering I'm sure you'll come up with a full sentence, eventually," she teased, quickly tying the tie around her own neck. She then loosened it and hooked it back over his head, pulling at his shoulders to turn him around to face her. As she smoothed his collar over the neck of the tie and tightened the knot, he stared at a spot on her face but unsurprisingly refused to make eye contact.

"You look beautiful, Alana," he finally said coherently, and she felt a slight warmth creep into her face.

"Thank you, Will." She smiled up at him and his eyes suddenly shifted to her own; he held her gaze for only a moment before clearing his throat and backing away.

"Yeah, uh... Okay, thanks. I'm- uh, I'll go grab my jacket."

About five minutes later, they were headed back down the driveway and on to Baltimore; the silence in the car was stifling and Alana was nearly ready to turn on the radio, when Will suddenly spoke. "Transmission blew, I think," he mumbled, nodding toward his car.

"Huh... Are you sure?" Alana peered at the car in her rear view mirror as they drove away and started toward the freeway. "Volvo's transmissions are pretty stellar, from my understanding. What exactly happened?"

Will blinked at her for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Uh, well, I was headed up the driveway and it stopped accelerating... and then it just, y'know, stopped."

"No weird noises or anything?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Might be a belt, or something electrical. I think Volvos are notorious for electrical problems. I'd suggest just getting a new car. It's an '08, right?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, that sucks." She shook her head and offered a sympathetic click of her tongue. "The repair costs are probably going to run about the same as buying another used vehicle. It just wouldn't be worth it."

"Okay..." He muttered. She could feel him staring at her and she glanced at him sideways.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just... Who are you?"

Alana snorted and rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Because I don't have a penis I can't know a thing or two about cars?"

"No!"

"Excuse me?" Her eyebrows shot up her forehead and she turned to glare at him.

"No! I mean... I mean, no, I didn't mean it like _that_ ," he fumbled hastily. "I just had no idea you were a mechanic."

She let out a puff of laughter and shook her head. "I'm not. My, uh... dad-" She paused to clear her throat and gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter; she hardly liked to think about Travis, let alone talk about him. "H-He just... knew a lot about cars and, uh, taught me some things. It's a hobby that stuck with me as I got older."

"Ah," he replied quietly.

Another awkward silence descended upon the cabin and Alana moved once more with the intention to switch the radio on, but Will cleared his throat and spoke again. "So uh, Jack stopped by today."

"Is that so," she replied, her words indicating a question though her tone insinuated otherwise; she had a feeling she knew exactly where this was going and she honestly wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

"He asked about that day... You know, when you d-"

"Dumped my sister off on you. Yeah, I figured."

"I was going to say dropped her off, but... Tomato, potato, or whatever..."

Alana couldn't help but laugh at that and shook her head. "Sorry, I'm still disappointed in myself for that mess. What, uh... what did he say?"

Taking a deep breath, Will straightened up in his seat and she could see him fiddling with his tie out of her peripheral. "He just asked why she was there; what exactly happened; did she attack me... Did she say anything, did I provoke her... Typical stuff. I mean, all he knew was that she was in the hospital for a few minor injuries and that she was brought from my house, so..."

"So... what did _you_ say?" she asked tentatively, her stomach doing backflips as she nervously awaited his response.

"I told him the truth – she has Dissociative episodes, had one while she was visiting, and got hurt in the woods."

Alana swallowed thickly. "I still haven't had a chance to talk to him."

"Well, he knows now, so... Hopefully, tonight, he'll see she's doing better and he'll back off."

"Yeah..." It took a moment for his words to really sink in, but when they did her foot nearly slipped off the gas pedal; she steadied herself and canted her head to make sure she could hear him clearly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"What... what?"

"What do you mean 'tonight?'"

"Uh... Jack and his wife are invited to dinner tonight. I thought you knew."

"No..."

"Oh."

The oppressive quiet returned and this time Alana didn't bother to reach for the radio. All she could think about was the fact that Jack Crawford would be sitting at the same dinner table as her sister. If she knew Jack at all – and she did – she knew he was going to try interrogating the poor girl, probably halfway through the first course. While Will fidgeted beside her in complete silence, she spent the entire hour's drive to Hannibal's house going over possible scenarios in her mind, constructing ways to deflect and redirect any potential unpleasant conversations.

* * *

At Hannibal's words, the very vivid memory of being splayed across his desk with his face buried between her thighs pushed itself to the forefront of her mind. Delilah squirmed a little in her seat and flipped the sun visor down to check her makeup in the lighted mirror – simply for something to do in lieu of returning his gaze. She could feel his eyes upon her even as the light turned green and the vehicle rolled forward.

"It is impolite to ignore a direct question," he said softly, a teasing lilt to his tone. She watched in the mirror as colour filled her cheeks and she quickly snapped the visor back up.

"I think you know exactly how I'd like to spend our time," she finally replied, chancing a sideways glance at him to find he was blatantly grinning at her expense.

Hannibal tapped his fingers upon the steering wheel as he carefully made a right turn; she felt her own fingers twitch as he merely sighed and let out a thoughtful hum.

"So often we get interrupted..." she continued, allowing her left hand to glide over the center console and rest gently upon his thigh.

"An hour is not nearly enough time for all the things I plan to do to you," he replied simply, the straightforwardness of it sending shivers down her spine.

It was her turn to only hum in response, as his much larger and warmer hand folded over her own. Thinking he would push her away, she tried to preemptively retrieve her hand, but he suddenly squeezed her fingers and gave her a firm tug; she yelped softly as she collided with his arm and she quickly unbuckled her seat belt so she could turn to face him. As the car rolled to a stop at another light, he leaned down and teased her lips with his own.

"Hm, take this off," he whispered against her mouth.

At her befuddled squint, he gave her a pointed look and licked a tiny smear of crimson off his lower lip. "Oh, of course." She laughed softly, retrieving her purse from beside her feet and rummaging within it, one-handed, to find a tissue; she carefully wiped the lipstick away and stuffed it back into her bag.

The light changed then and Hannibal turned away to focus on the road again, pulling through the intersection and parking off to the side. Releasing her hand, he suddenly unbuckled his seat belt, shoved her back into the leather seat, and leaned heavily over the center console to smother her in a long, passionate kiss. When she had very nearly lost her ability to breathe or think straight, he pulled away just as abruptly, shifted the vehicle back into drive, and sped off down the road.

"Please refasten your seat belt," he said, doing so himself. "I'd rather not get a ticket."

Chest heaving and face flushed, she nodded jerkily and fumbled for the belt – finding it after a moment's struggle and snapping it back into place. "...Will you always take my breath away?" she asked quietly. It was a rhetorical question, mostly to herself, but he chuckled and gathered her hand again, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"Here's hoping," he replied smoothly, and she peered over at him to find a wide grin plastered on his face.

Delilah took a moment to steady her breathing, noting just how beautiful he was when he smiled so genuinely; the corners of his eyes crinkled with crows feet and his sharp canines gleamed beneath his firm, sensual lips... Lips that so often seemed to perpetually toe the line between smirking at something, or frowning with disappointment. She brushed the back of her hand against his sharp cheekbone and down to trace the outline of his jaw.

"At first, I was furious with Alana for forcing me to come see you," she muttered. "Now I think perhaps I should buy her a gift basket."

"Mm, why do you say that?" he asked quietly.

With a soft sigh, she leaned back against her seat and pulled his hand to herself, threading her fingers with his once more and tracing the veins that trailed up and disappeared under the sleeve of his coat. She hadn't thought before speaking and now she wondered what she'd truly meant by that statement. "I am... fond of you, is all," she replied carefully, keeping her eyes downcast. "I think I am quite lucky to have met you, Doctor Lecter. Possibly more than I can know, right now."

Hannibal stayed silent long enough to make her begin to feel uncomfortable; he was quite possibly the only man she'd ever known that could make her feel simultaneously indestructible and like an awkward, starry-eyed teenager – and she nearly told him as much, when he finally chose to speak.

"I am fond of you, as well," he said, his tone soft and sincere. Her eyes darted to his face and she watched him drag his teeth over his lower lip before he added, "But I must disagree – if anyone is lucky, it would certainly be myself, though I seldom entertain the thought of luck."

"A real man makes his own luck, right Cal?"

He seemed puzzled for a moment, then snorted lightly. "Always so quick with the outdated pop-culture references..."

"How dare you. There's nothing outdated about _Titanic_ ," she grumbled, trying to feign insult though she had to fight not to laugh. "It's a classic, okay?"

Disentangling his hand from hers, he tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger and shot her a withering stare. "Remind me to teach you the definition of the word," he muttered teasingly, turning on to a street lined with houses Delilah was sure must be large enough to qualify as mansions.

"Oh, hush," she replied, sticking her tongue out at him before leaning against the door to peer out her window at the passing homes.

"Next time you stick your tongue out at me I'll be forced to bite it," he warned, snapping his teeth together for emphasis.

Delilah snickered and muttered under her breath, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

After another few minutes of following along a strangely winding residential road, Hannibal pulled his Bentley onto the driveway of one of the more looming houses on the block and killed the engine; she felt him brush her hair away from her neck and she turned to find him staring at her with a striking hunger in his eyes.

Swallowing thickly, she suddenly found herself unsure as to whether she should be afraid or aroused. His large hand encircled her throat and for a wild moment she thought he may snap her neck; it dawned on her then how easily he could. He didn't, of course, and instead hooked his fingers around the base of her neck and urged her toward him. Like a moth to a flame, she unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over to press her lips to his. He gripped her face with both hands and kissed her breathless again, before releasing her and stepping out of the car.

Before she could get her bearings, he was opening her door and helping her out of the vehicle. She snagged her purse along the way and he snapped her door shut before slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her to the house. He left her at the top of the steps and continued forward to unlock the door; she stared at the back of his head for a moment, then hooked an arm around one of the pillars of the portico and leaned back to get a better view of the massive building.

"Jeez," she muttered, counting at least ten large windows on the face of the house.

"What, is it too much?" he asked playfully, pushing the door open and turning to watch her.

"Mm-mm." She shook her head, pushing a curl out of her eyes as she smiled at him. "Just enough to impress or intimidate, as needed... I wouldn't expect any less from you."

He returned her smile and reached a hand out to her, which she stepped forward to take at once and he quickly tugged her over the threshold.

"Welcome to my home," he said, taking her purse and storing it in the coat closet to the right of the impressive foyer; he then removed his coat and suit jacket and hung them up, as well. He was wearing his typical white button up and as he began systematically folding his sleeves up to his elbows, she wandered about to observe the space.

All the designs and accoutrements of his psychiatry office had spilled over into his home décor, and she couldn't say she was surprised. "Do you do all of your own decorating?"

Hannibal simply nodded and placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her out of the foyer. She studied painting after painting and statue after statue, as they slowly moved through the hallway – then into and around what he called his study, and back out again – with Hannibal giving her succinct yet thorough explanations of each piece of artwork they came across. He seemed to particularly enjoy Edo Period Japanese artwork, but had accumulated many pieces from every other culture and era imaginable. Every piece of furniture seemed to be genuine antique and his home expertly danced the fine line between being a stuffy, personal museum and a cozy place to curl up with a book and some coffee.

They ended the little tour in a very chic and modern kitchen – an environment entirely separate from what she'd seen so far. It was decked out in what she assumed to be only the highest-end equipment, with everything, from the stainless steel refrigerator and kitchen island, to the marble countertops, looking remarkably expensive and very... sanitary.

"...Penny for your thoughts?" he asked, sounding genuinely eager, almost apprehensive, to know what she thought of his home.

"I was going to say this feels like a surgical environment," she mused, wandering around to observe the space. "But I suppose that's to be expected."

Smirking, Hannibal inclined his head and moved past her to rummage in the fridge. "I have something for you," he said, instantly piquing her interest.

"Oh?"

"Close your eyes and hold out your hands," he instructed, and she did so without hesitation.

Feeling a bit silly, she listened for several moments through quiet shuffling and what sounded to her like plastic being sliced open, before she heard his shoes click dully upon the tile floor and felt his presence come to a halt before her. Without warning, something startlingly cold and heavy landed in her palms – she very nearly dropped it in her surprise, but managed to hold on tight as her eyelids fluttered open. "Oh," was all she could think to say, at first, taking a moment to observe what she knew at once to be a heart in her hands, before squinting curiously up at Hannibal. "This is...?"

"Beef heart," he replied, clearly scrutinizing her face; though why, she hadn't the slightest clue.

Though her first question was _'Why in the hell am I holding it?'_ she found herself muttering instead, "Huh. Seems a bit small..."

"Well, veal, to be precise. Much more tender and flavourful – perfect for tartare."

"I see." She turned the heart over and smoothed her thumbs along the ventricles, watching a trickle of blood ooze over the meat and pool against her palm. "And um... Why am I holding it?"

"These are about the size and weight of the average human heart; I was curious to see if you would have an adverse reaction," he replied, smiling as he plucked the heart from her hands. "I am pleased you didn't."

A twinge of annoyance niggled at her as she watched Hannibal casually step over to the kitchen island, but she said nothing as she watched him set about effortlessly trimming and de-veining the heart she'd just been holding – along with two others. The fact that he'd so blatantly attempted to trigger an episode made her feel uneasy, but she tried to tamp it down as she moved to the sink.

"Delilah, it's just us," he said softly. "You must trust that I would have been able to handle things, had you reacted negatively."

"I-I know," she muttered, staring down at her palms as she carefully scrubbed the minute traces of blood from her skin. "I just... I don't quite appreciate being toyed with."

Hannibal's movements ceased at once and she tentatively peeked over her shoulder to find him staring at her, looking rather wounded. "You think I'm toying with you?"

"Well, I-..." She shrugged and opted to chew on her lip rather than respond, unsure of what to say; honestly, she wasn't entirely sure what to think.

He carefully set his knife down and crossed to wash his hands, quickly drying them on a kitchen towel before handing it to her to dry her own. She took the plush bit of cloth and kept her head down as she took more time than necessary to dry her hands; the last thing she wanted to do, at the moment, was look at him.

"Delilah, please," he spoke softly, nearly pleading, as his hands came to rest heavily upon her shoulders. She took a steadying breath and finally brought her eyes up to his. "I only wanted you to see how far you've come," he explained, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. "...Tell me what you're thinking."

She licked her lips and blinked rapidly up at the ceiling, refusing to allow herself to cry and ruin her meticulously painted eyeliner. "I just... I'm constantly worrying whether I'm going to lose myself again – or, if it's inevitable, then... when? I think I've felt a change since telling you everything that happened. Honestly, I do. I-I mean, I put the pictures back up in the living room and I can look at his stupid face without being bothered now... I know that must be progress.

"But it's only been two days and I've mostly been alone, so I can't say for certain whether I've had an episode or not. I don't think I have..." She inhaled deeply and shook her head as she exhaled loudly, retreating from his touch and shaking her arms out as she stepped away. "Oh, I just-... I just _don't know,_ and it's terrifying. I can't possibly be better already, can I? I mean, people don't just stop being insane."

Hannibal's nostrils flared in temper and raked his teeth over his upper lip. "This is the last time I will say this and I ask you to listen," he said sternly, " _you are not insane._ "

"...I would think separating from reality would be a fair indicator of sanity, or a distinct lack thereof, Hannibal."

"Delilah, stop this at once. Come." Snatching the towel from her hands and tossing it at the sink, he abruptly grabbed her by the arm and ushered her toward the island. He swiftly took up a massive, silver knife and flipped it around to offer it by the handle. "Cut the meat into thin slices," he commanded, and she simply stared up at him.

"I-... I don't-... I've never sliced up a heart before."

Hannibal suddenly slipped behind her and forced the hilt of the knife into her right palm, wrapping his hand over hers and lacing the fingers of his free hand with her other. He leaned forward so his cheek was right beside hers; she tried to look at him but he pushed his face flush against hers and nodded down at the trimmed hunks of meat. "Imagine this is Travis Bloom's heart," he whispered, his voice a low rumble against her skin. She felt like a puppet in his arms, watching as he took her empty hand and grabbed the nearest heart, pulling it forward before maneuvering her hands into proper position. "Knuckles forward, always; you can be sure my knives are thoroughly sharpened at all times and you wouldn't want to lose a finger."

Before she could argue, he began slicing the heart, with her hands, into near-paper-thin strips. Once he was halfway through, he paused and asked, "Do you see how it's done?"

Delilah swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, and he suddenly released her hands; the knife was absurdly heavy and she clutched it tight to avoid dropping it. Gripping the edge of the counter at either side of her waist, he laid his chin upon her shoulder and said softly, "Your turn, then."

Gently digging her fingertips into the meat, she curled her fingers as instructed and carefully began slicing away. Her first two cuts were wider than his own by a small margin, but it didn't take her long to get the hang of it and soon she had reduced the rest of the heart to long, thin slivers of its former self. She vaguely wondered how Travis' actual heart had ended up and decided she hoped some filthy rats had gotten to it.

"Very good," he commended, turning to press his lips to her earlobe. "Now the others..."

She was mildly surprised to find her hand didn't tremble as she reached for a second lump of flesh, pushing the pile of meat slices to one side with the blade of her knife before setting to task. It was much easier now.

"Are you imagining this is Travis as well?" he inquired, his warm breath caressing her ear and forcing her to actively retain her focus.

"Mm, no," she replied, slowly slicing away as he kissed lightly down her neck. "This one's a bit fatter... I think it could be that oaf Franklyn's."

Hannibal froze for a moment and she felt him smile against her skin; he wrapped his arms around her waist, using his forearms to hold her close. "Tu es parfaite, ma chérie," he whispered in her ear.

Delilah offered a pleased hum in response and finished with the second heart, before setting the knife down and leaning back heavily against him. "I think you could tell me I'm hideous in French and my knees would still go weak," she muttered, turning to catch his lips as they both laughed softly.

He nipped her bottom lip before replying firmly, "I wouldn't dare." He then released her and she stepped aside so he could take over with the final veal heart. Leaning her hip against the counter, she watched him lazily before wandering off to wash her hands again.

"I've only done this for your benefit," he said suddenly, his tone quite serious again. "I know full well how arduous the journey toward a clean bill of mental health can be, but I also know there are exceptions to every case... With yours, in particular, I have a strong suspicion you'll be doing just fine from now on."

"Is that a promise?"

"It is an observation. I take responsibility for your mental health and well-being, but I will not guarantee that your recovery is set in stone. There is always a chance for regression, though I doubt it so long as you continue to see me."

Delilah blinked over at him before scanning the room for a clock; finding one on the oven, she noted it was a quarter to seven and frowned slightly.

"Something the matter, my dear?"

"I've never been one for the tired 'where is this going' cliché but... I would be lying if I were to say I don't have some questions..."

Hannibal nodded pensively, pulling a second knife from the block and gathering all the strips of meat into a massive pile. "Ask away; we have plenty of time," he said simply, before utilizing both knives in tandem to pulverize the remains of the three veal hearts.

"Alright..." she began tentatively, wandering around the perimeter of the kitchen as she chose her words carefully. "Say we find ourselves... distracted... during or after a session, again – if I'm spending more time with you than our allotted hour a week, I'm sure Alana will have some questions."

"We just won't do that again," he replied, much too quickly for her liking.

She paused mid-stride, her fingertips resting on the handle of the refrigerator. "...I see," she muttered, unable to hide her disappointment. To her dismay, Hannibal laughed and she shot him a thoroughly wounded glare.

"So, so sweet." He sighed, smirking to himself as he began transferring the now thoroughly mutilated bits of heart into a glass storage container. "What I mean is we will find other times, other ways, to see each other... recreationally, for lack of a better word."

"I see," she said again, a relieved titter escaping her lips. "Well, good."

"Good."

"...Oh, stop smirking at me," she groused, taking the now sealed container as he handed it over. Hannibal laughed again and tossed her a wink, before stepping back to the island to clean up.

Once his hands were washed and dried and the kitchen was pristine again, he pulled her into his arms and she pressed her ear his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart as he gently swayed them in place.

"Was that all the prep work needed?" she asked, tilting her chin up to look at him.

Hannibal nodded once and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Everything else has been taken care of."

"How much time do we have?"

He peered over her shoulder to look at his watch, and sighed heavily. "Guests should be arriving... three minutes ago."

"Three-" she began, momentarily bewildered, but was suddenly cut off by the doorbell.

"Ah. Showtime," he muttered, taking a moment to smooth a hand over his hair. A flurry of nervous butterflies unexpectedly filled her belly, and she only partially heard him ask, "Shall we?"

"Wha-...? Oh, yes, of course," she muttered, taking his arm and lightly digging her nails into his skin for support as they traveled back to the foyer together.

"Jack Crawford and his wife will be in attendance," he suddenly informed her, and she nearly tripped over her own feet in shock. She clung to his arm like a spooked cat and he paused to give her a moment to collect herself.

"I-I'm sorry, what? Why?"

"You heard me, and because he is good to keep around," he replied calmly. "There's no need to fall to pieces, Delilah – just be your polite, charming self and all will be well." He glanced briefly to the door as the bell rang again, then tucked a lock of hair away from her face and bent down. "I have faith in you," he whispered earnestly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before leaving her feeling entirely exposed in the center of the foyer and moving to greet his first dinner guest.

"Jack, Bella, come in," Hannibal began affably, stepping aside and gesturing them over the threshold. "It's so good to see-" he continued, but was abruptly cut off by Jack's naturally booming voice –

"What the hell is _she_ doing here?"


	12. Chapter 12

**_Chapter 12_ **

  
****

Jack Crawford’s little outburst evidently came as quite a shock to all involved. While Delilah simply stared, feeling very much like a doe caught in the headlights, Bella gaped at him in utter bewilderment and Hannibal himself appeared scandalized in a way Delilah hadn't yet seen; with his mouth parted slightly, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and his head canted to the side, he seemed entirely at a loss for words.

 

If she could allow herself to feel a modicum of relief in the moment, his dumbfounded reaction would have been the catalyst for it – after his earlier attempt to trigger an episode with the veal heart, she hoped this meant he hadn't orchestrated the whole debacle to test her in some other unforeseen way. As it was, all Delilah could feel was the bizarre vibrating sensation that accompanied the panic-induced adrenaline coursing through her nervous system, and it was a damned struggle not to simply bolt out the open front door.

 

“Well, Doctor Lecter?” Jack pressed. “Care to tell me why I'm looking at one of your _patients_ standing in your home right now?”

 

Delilah watched curiously as Hannibal's features smoothed and his mouth twisted into an outwardly serene, yet somehow predatory, smile that didn't quite touch his eyes.

 

“This is part and parcel of Miss Bloom’s therapy, Jack,” he replied calmly. “Placing her in an unfamiliar location and surrounding her with unfamiliar people, while she has an anchor in myself and eventually her sister; she’s been stable enough that I see a need to challenge her now. One may find it potentially unethical, but I think we can agree that ethics sometimes happen to fall by the wayside…”

 

While Delilah’s heart sank to her toes, along with any hope that this evening could possibly be more than just an avant-garde therapy session, a silent exchange was shared between the two men and was followed by a noticeable grimace from Jack, before Hannibal added, “All the same, tonight Delilah is not to be treated as my patient – tonight, she is simply my guest.”

 

The man glared at Hannibal for what felt like an age, before he shifted his narrowed eyes back to Delilah; he seemed to be daring her to say something stupid.

 

Forcing a smile, Delilah gathered every ounce of courage she could muster and stepped forward to offer her minutely shaking hand. Her eyes darted instinctively toward Hannibal and he blinked twice at Jack before catching her gaze, his lips quirking toward a ghost of a smile – though it faltered at once when her hand made contact with Jack's; she was puzzled by his sudden scowl, until she felt the force of Jack's fingers evidently attempting to crush her own. “It- It’s good to see you again, Mr. Crawford,” she said, struggling not to wince.

 

“ _Agent,_ ” he snapped, giving her arm a short jerk before releasing her to gesture to the beautiful woman at his side. “This is my wife, Bella. Bella, this is Alana Bloom's little sister, Delilah.”

 

Bella offered her a warm, albeit confused, smile and shook her hand – thankfully much more gently. “It's very nice to meet you, Delilah. I wasn't aware Alana had any siblings.”

 

Jack snorted humorlessly. “Apparently, she's been hiding the girl... So, Hannibal, are any of your gala friends attending dinner this evening? If they are, I suppose you'd like us to keep her mental instability and your little experiment to ourselves. Don’t want anyone thinking they’re having dinner with a psychopathic-”

 

“ _Jack!_ ” Bella interjected with a gasp, clearly taken aback by her husband’s behaviour.

 

The barest hint of something vicious and deadly flashed across Hannibal's face just then, only for a moment, but it was swiftly replaced with knitted brows and a deeply disappointed frown. “If we are going to have a problem tonight, I may have to ask you to leave,” he replied quietly.

 

“Is that so, Doctor?”

 

“Should you continue to behave like this, you will leave me no other choice.  Discourtesy has no place at my table.”

 

Jack chuckled darkly and shook his head, clearly biting back a snide remark. “Alright, alright.” He grinned at Delilah as if she were meant to be in on some kind of joke, then offered a slight, sardonic bow in her direction. “Forgive me, Ms. Bloom, it's been a long week.”

 

“Not to worry, _Agent_ Crawford,” she replied with a sickly-sweet smile. “I imagine your job is quite stressful.”

 

“You have no idea…”

 

Stifling silence descended upon them as Hannibal put the married couple's things in the coat closet and, as she absently massaged her hand, Delilah continued to debate internally over whether she should just leave. She certainly hadn’t agreed to being a psychiatry guinea pig tonight and, on top of that, it was quite evident that Jack had some sort of issue with her; his demeanor had been understandably awkward when they had first met, but now he radiated what felt very much like disgust. The last thing she needed was ambiguous stress piled on top of the stress she was already feeling over her potential _psychopathy_ , as he had so kindly put it. Try as she might, she couldn’t fathom what had his panties in such a bunch — the man couldn’t possibly be _this_ upset over Hannibal inviting a patient to dinner, could he?

 

Before anyone could attempt to remedy the awkwardness, a small group of people Delilah didn't recognize made their way up the steps to the open front door.

 

“Ah.” Hannibal breezed forward to welcome two women and a man into the foyer. “Mr. and Mrs. Komeda, Lenora – good evening.”

 

The shorter of the females, a scrawny woman with a jet black, a-line bob, thrust herself and her vulgarly overflowing chest toward Hannibal. “Oh, Doctor Lecter,” she cooed, sighing dramatically and placing a bony hand on his upper arm. “I must say, I was ever-so-concerned when you called to push dinner back. It was only half an hour, sure, but you've never done such a thing before – and what with it being _so_ long since you’ve invited us over, I nearly feared you may cancel on us!”

 

“Nonsense, Mrs. Komeda,” he replied, offering her a polite smile and sidestepping away from her touch. He took her shawl and purse, along with her seemingly oblivious husband's coat, and hung them in the closet. “Two of our number will be a bit late and we would be remiss to start without them.” He then turned to Lenora, a lithe and rather disinterested-looking woman, to take her coat and clutch. “I trust the minor change in plans tonight didn't cause you any grief?”

 

Lenora scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Oh please, Doctor Lecter. It's kind enough of you to welcome us into your home — it isn't as if we are paying you for a service.” She added the last bit with a pointed glance in Mrs. Komeda's direction, but the woman seemed to be ignoring her presence entirely.

 

Between the woman openly flirting with Hannibal and the husband that was more interested in the ceiling than his own wife — not to mention the strained relationship the two women themselves seemed to have, even though Delilah was fairly certain they had all arrived together — the entire display was just absurd enough to make her forget about Jack Crawford, if only temporarily.

 

She happened to glance in his direction and found he was still glowering at her, however, and she was very nearly ready to ask him just what the hell his problem was, when Hannibal began introducing the little group to each other.

 

“This is Special Agent Jack Crawford-“

 

“Special Agent?”

 

“That’s correct. I’m the head of Behavioral Sciences-”

 

“Oh, how fascinating! I don’t know if Dr. Lecter told you, but I’m a novelist, you see, and I’m actually working on a fictional crime-drama…"

 

Lingering on the outskirts as they nattered on, Delilah quietly made her way around to lean halfway out the still wide-open front door, enjoying the crisp autumn breeze as it rustled her hair. It would be so easy to just take off and call a taxi or a _Lyft_ — at this point, god-awful karaoke would be a welcome annoyance.

 

Just as she noticed the bright headlights of what must be Alana's hybrid pulling up the driveway, Hannibal gently called her name and she turned to find him looking at her with mild concern, a hand outstretched toward her. Resisting the urge to actually take his hand, she stepped nearer – then further away again – making sure to keep a proper distance between them. “Yes, Doctor Lecter?”

 

“Mrs. Komeda has asked about you.” Hannibal moved to her side and rested a hand on her shoulder. “This is a good friend of mine, Delilah Bloom.”

 

“Good friend, hm?”

 

Hannibal merely chuckled and shook his head.

 

“Mhm… So, how do you two know each other?” she asked. Though she was barely an inch taller than Delilah herself, Mrs. Komeda somehow managed to peer down her nose at her as she added, “Surely you’ve never been to any of the events we and Doctor Lecter tend to frequent; I think I would remember such a lovely young face.”

 

Her words felt bizarrely like an insult, though Delilah couldn’t quite pinpoint why; rather than dwell on it, she simply smiled and shook her head. “No, probably not. Doctor Lecter used to be my sister’s mentor; they’ve been friends for quite some time and she introduced us not too long ago.”

 

Not bothering to wait for a response, she casually turned her attention back to Hannibal. “Speaking of Alana, she and Will are headed up now. I just saw her car-“

 

As if on cue, the pair came bustling over the threshold and Alana's eyes darted about before zeroing in on Delilah, who merely blinked at her curiously as her sister rushed to greet her. “Hey,” she said, slightly out of breath. “You alright?”

 

“I’m doing just fine,” Delilah replied, quirking a bemused brow at her. “Are _you_ alright?”

 

Alana studied her intently, as if trying to spot a lie hiding in amongst her eyelashes, then let out a small sigh of relief and smiled — evidently mollified by whatever she found on Delilah's face. “Good. Yeah, I’m good too.”

 

“Good,” Hannibal repeated, drawing everyone's attention back to himself as he took Alana’s shawl and purse, along with Will’s coat. “Now that we're all present and accounted for – Will, would you kindly shut the door?”

 

Quite obviously uncomfortable, Will abruptly yanked the door shut behind himself with a dull slam and blindly locked it before cramming his hands into the front pockets of his trousers. Delilah did note that he looked much more put-together than she could ever remember seeing him, but he was clearly still exhausted beyond reason — and nothing of his or Alana’s appearance suggested that he was tired after some particularly strenuous activity, either.

 

“Thank you. Shall we, then?” Hannibal said, simultaneously placing their things in the closet and regathering his own suit jacket, before gesturing everyone out of the foyer and herding them into the dining room.

 

When they came upon the room and guests were scanning the place cards to find their seats, Delilah stopped short in the entryway — all worries momentarily forgotten, as she was thoroughly stunned by her surroundings.

 

Apart from one papered wall depicting some sort of landscape etching, which served as the backdrop for several shelves filled to capacity with herbs – all real and fresh, judging by the lush, earthy scents wafting around the room – the other two walls framing the dining table were adorned with inky, sapphire moldings that bent and waved. Each wall gave the distinct impression that the room was moving, breathing... alive. Against the dark blue wall to the left, a solid stone fireplace was happily crackling away with an antique oak credenza resting beside it, and either surface was adorned with a charming mix of both modern and traditional décor.

 

In the center of the room sat a massive, maplewood dining table – as exquisite a piece of furniture as any he owned, but she found the centerpieces set atop the dark gray table runner to be most captivating: Fresh flowers, dark fruits, and other assorted embellishments filled and overflowed from three bowls, their contents seeming to crawl purposefully from one display to the next. The display appeared to tell a story — one Delilah found she would certainly like to know.

 

A warm hand was suddenly felt upon her upper back and she blinked away from her stupor to find Hannibal staring down at her, a profundity to his gaze that she couldn't begin to comprehend.

 

“You've really outdone yourself, Hannibal,” Jack announced appreciatively, and Delilah instinctively jerked away from Hannibal's touch.

 

A nearly inaudible sigh escaped the man at her side and she glanced up only to find him smiling benignly at the rest of his guests. “Thank you, Jack. Please, everyone, make yourselves comfortable; if you'll excuse us, Delilah is going to assist in collecting our appetizer. After you,” he said, motioning in the general direction of the kitchen.

 

Delilah hesitated for a fraction before turning back the way she'd come and taking an abrupt left. Leaning against the wall, she pressed a hand to her chest and felt her heart flutter erratically as she took a few deep breaths. Hannibal paused before her for a moment, then sighed again and gently took hold of her arm to lead her down the hall.

 

When he released her, she ventured forth to lean heavily against the kitchen island, resisting the urge to mash her face onto the icy, stainless steel top, and she watched Hannibal pause to carefully lay his jacket upon the beige armchair in the corner; he then breezed past her to retrieve a stack of small, wide-rimmed dishes from a cupboard, which he silently placed in a neat little row before her. As she counted out nine of the strange little porcelain bowls, Hannibal silently moved about to gather ingredients and supplies.

 

“I thought you said everything was taken care of?” she asked quietly.

 

“It has been, for the most part. The tartare must be prepared and served as soon after as possible,” he explained, setting down the glass storage dish of veal hearts they had prepared earlier, along with two jars, an onion, a small carton of eggs, and a fire engine red chili pepper no wider than her ring finger. “I can certainly manage alone, but I figured you could use a breather.”

 

“You figured correctly,” she mumbled, snagging the jars to inspect their contents — capers and tiny pickles labeled _cornichons_. “Jack seems to have it out for me...”

 

“Of course he does,” came Hannibal's no-nonsense reply, as he took the jar of capers from her, and her stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably. “You knew two of the victims of last week's killings. Jack would be a fool not to suspect you.”

 

Delilah let out an indignant huff and opened her mouth to defend herself, but her words died in her throat as his statement fully sank in. “Wait, what?”

 

Hannibal paused in the middle of pouring some capers into a sieve over the sink. “Hm?”

 

“I… I knew two of the victims?”

 

“Ah, yes.” He rinsed the capers and shook the sieve a bit, then dumped them into a small glass dish, which he set down beside the meat. “One was a woman called Marilyn DeMarco-”

 

“I’m sorry, who?”

 

“One of your nurses, the day you were injured on Will Graham’s property.” He quickly began dicing half of the onion as he continued pensively, “It’s rather curious, given she didn’t live nor work anywhere near where her body was found.”

 

“Huh.” Delilah squinted up at the ceiling for a moment, but she couldn’t place a face to the name. “And the other…?”

 

“Matthew Nelson,” he said simply, his tone suggesting this information was nothing while her stomach took a nosedive.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“You heard me.” He rinsed the chili and lopped off the stem, then set to work deseeding it and slicing it so thin, so fast, she wasn’t sure she’d even seen his knife move at all. “Are you bothered by this information?”

 

“Bothered…?” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared contemplatively at his hands, watching him deftly scoop the slivers of chili onto the blade of his knife and swipe them into another little dish.

 

Bothered was a strange word, with far too many possible meanings; she couldn’t say she was torn up about Matthew’s death, nor would she have ever been particularly fussed by it, but perhaps she _was_ a little concerned with the fact that the man had ended up violently murdered so soon after she’d had her own altercation with him — if only because it meant that Hannibal was absolutely right and Jack did have a solid basis for suspecting her.

 

“It… scares me,” she finally said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I would love to take credit for that bastard’s death, but I didn’t do it.”

 

“I know you didn’t. Jack will come to that understanding, as well, in time.”

 

Delilah gnawed on her lip as she brought her eyes up to study his face. He seemed entirely unconcerned, even a bit pleased, and after a moment she found his calm was oddly catching; slowly, her stomach crawled its way back up to its proper place inside her abdomen. “Okay. Alright, but… If he really thinks I've done this, why hasn't he brought me in for proper questioning? He’s just acting like an asshole.”

 

Hannibal’s lips quirked upward briefly before he replied softly, “Because sometimes, Delilah, ethics fall by the wayside. Anyone who has worked with him for more than a day will tell you the same.”

 

“...Fantastic.” She sighed heavily and rubbed at her arms as she started to pace.

 

“Please take a seat and relax,” Hannibal urged, gesturing toward the armchair behind her.

 

“Tall order,” she mumbled, picking up his jacket and reluctantly flopping onto the chair; she gently laid the beige and blue checked material across her lap and leaned back, letting out a small huff as she turned to rest her cheek against the cool leather.

 

Hannibal chuckled softly. “I need you to try your best. Never mind Jack’s little witch hunt, if you keep dancing away from me and turning pink out there, people are going to ask questions – and Mrs. Komeda has quite the affinity for gossip.”

 

“Honestly, Hannibal, I'm not entirely sure I should even be here,” she mumbled, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket before peeking at the collar for a tag, just out of curiosity. Where she expected the word ‘ _Armani,_ ’ or something similarly ostentatious, she found absolutely nothing.

 

“Nonsense,” he said. “You absolutely should be here.”

 

She blinked away from the confusing jacket and stared up at him. “Why?”

 

“Because I want you here,” he replied matter-of-factly.

 

Delilah smiled and fidgeted in her seat — she certainly wouldn’t argue with that. “May I do anything to help,” she asked as she stood again, “or am I only allowed to watch?”

 

He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “If you cannot simply relax as I've asked, you may help by collecting the serving cart,” he said, producing a small key from his pocket and holding it out to her; he then nodded toward the door behind her. “It’s in the pantry.”

 

“Alright.” Gently laying his jacket back down on the chair, she plucked the key from his fingertips and moved to unlock the door. As she twisted the key and gripped the doorknob, she hesitated, finding it bizarre that he bothered to keep his pantry locked at all, and quirked a brow at him over her shoulder. “What are you hiding in here?”

 

Hannibal's lips twisted into a grin and he shook his head. “If I were intending to hide something from you, it would be rather silly of me to just hand you the key, would it not?”

 

“I didn't ask whether you were hiding anything from _me_ , specifically,” she replied, tossing him a wink before stepping into the slightly chillier little side room.

 

Inside were several bulky and professional-looking culinary tools, such as a meat grinder and a deli slicer; a second fridge, filled with a wide variety of fresh produce and vacuum-sealed meats; and built straight into the walls lining either side of the door were dozens of spaces for bottles of wine – nearly all of which were occupied.

 

“Wow. You have your own personal little liquor store in here,” she muttered, snagging a random bottle of red off the wall and reading its label. ‘ _Antinori Guado al Tasso Bolgheri Superiore, 2013,’_ it proclaimed — none of which meant much of anything to her.

 

“Each meal demands its own tailored accompaniment,” he replied.

 

Delilah hummed thoughtfully, replacing the bottle before finding the serving cart and pulling it around toward the door. “Speaking of tailored —” she began, but the skinny heel of her right pump suddenly caught on something and her thought ended in a squeak, as she lurched forward to free her foot.

 

“Everything alright?” Hannibal called, genuine concern in his voice.

 

Glancing back and finding nothing but hardwood flooring, she rolled her eyes and shoved the cart out into the kitchen to find Hannibal halfway to the door to check on her. “I’m fine,” she assured him with a smile. “Just being clumsy, I guess.”

 

“Rather unlike you,” he said, frowning some before doubling back to the kitchen island to grab a large, metal mixing bowl.

 

Delilah pushed the cart over to a halt beside the porcelain bowls, then leaned against the counter again to watch Hannibal crack and separate three egg yolks into the bowl before quickly mixing its contents. “Nerves,” she offered with a small shrug.

 

He replied with a knowing hum and moved to the oven to retrieve a tray of toasted baguette rounds; transferring them to a wire rack to cool, he then returned to the bowl and added a dash of sea salt, along with several turns from a black pepper grinder, before giving it another mix. “Were you going to ask me about my suits?” he inquired, jumping back to her attempted conversation — before she’d evidently tripped over a ghost — as he moved to her side to begin portioning out the tartare.

 

“Mhm. I noticed there’s no tag in your jacket.”

 

“Each is custom made to my exact specifications,” he said, wordlessly motioning for her to help him transfer the dishes onto the serving cart. “A good tailor should be known by his stitching, thereby leaving no need for labels.”

 

Delilah studied him as they worked in tandem; each time she sat a bowl down, he would take a healthy pinch of extra sea salt and bend over to place a perfect, curving trail of it upon one side of the wide, flat rim; he was so careful about it, so meticulous, one would think they were preparing these dishes for the Queen of England. “…Anyone ever tell you you have control issues, Hannibal?”

 

He froze briefly, then smirked and peered up at her with an amused twinkle in his eye. “It’s only an issue if it causes me detriment,” he replied, “and I can say with utmost certainty that my predilection for mastery over myself and my environment has done nothing but serve me well over the years.”

 

“And how do you deal with things out of your control?”

 

“Accordingly,” he said simply, a finality to his tone that told her the conversation was over. She watched as he stepped back to the little toasted pieces of bread and quickly began laying down three per bowl, resting them neatly on the rim, opposite the salt.

 

When he came to the last dish, Delilah’s nerves took over again and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself. She fiddled with the key still in her possession, absently twiddling it and flicking at it with her fingernails until it suddenly flew out of her hands and skittered across the floor. “Ah, shit,” she mumbled, dropping to her knees to search for it.

 

Hannibal sighed exasperatedly and stalked across the room, quickly retrieving the key from under the armchair and locking the pantry before placing it back in the safety of his pocket. “This is meant to be a pleasant night for us,” he said, stalking back to help her to her feet. “Please don't let Jack ruin it.”

 

“Just a pleasant night, huh,” she muttered, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “That’s all?”

 

Slowly dragging his teeth over his upper lip, he studied her for a moment before clearing his throat and offering a contrite little half-smile. “Yes. I do apologize that I caused you to have any sort of doubt, but I told Jack what he needed to hear and that’s where you need to leave it.” He reached out to tuck a particularly unruly curl behind her ear and dipped his head slightly, just enough to look her levelly in the eyes. “Nothing good can come of it if you do not trust me, Delilah. Can’t you trust me?”

 

Delilah stared back into his uniquely russet eyes, currently so warm and pleading, and searched carefully for some speck of insincerity. Finding none, she sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her hair, tousling it back and away from her face. “I can— I do. I do trust you. Of course I do. I’m sorry, I… I’ll try not to let him get to me. It's just-”

 

“It’s just nothing. He _has_ nothing.”

 

“I know, but-“

 

Tugging her to his chest, he slipped an arm around her waist and tipped her backward to silence her with a swift kiss. “Enough,” he demanded softly. “Rest assured, your secret is safe with me,” he continued, voicing a concern she hadn’t wanted to admit was plaguing her — that Jack would discover she had murdered Travis Bloom. “For as determined as I am to keep it so, it may as well be my own. Are we clear?”

 

Taking in a shaky breath and exhaling sharply, she nodded once before wrapping her arms around his shoulders and giving him a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his jugular before disentangling herself and taking a step back.

 

A tiny voice in the back of her mind suggested she ask why exactly he was so adamant about keeping her dirty little secret. She imagined doctor-patient confidentiality would be null and void in a situation such as this; no one would fault him for alerting the authorities to a murderer who had taken the effort to dismember and display her victim… But the voice was wafer-thin and easy to ignore. Delilah chose instead to simply be grateful and to bear in mind that, one day, she may well need to keep something to herself, for him, in return.

 

* * *

 

 

For all the shit people gave him for being awkward and antisocial, Will Graham found his propensity for being mostly laconic to be very beneficial in scenarios such as this — he was seldom, if ever, hassled for not contributing to the conversation.

 

Trying in vain to ignore the unwelcome guest seated across from himself, unwaveringly staring at him, Will took the time to study the others as they all awaited the beginning of their meal. Jack’s wife, being as easy to talk to as most extroverts tend to be, kept the other two women he didn’t know entertained; Jack spent the entirety of the ten or so minutes they’d been kept waiting thus far taking turns shooting looks at Alana and gazing expectantly at the entrance — quite obviously awaiting Hannibal and Delilah’s return; and for Alana’s part, she seemed unable to pry her glaring eyes off of Jack, at all.

 

After the fourth time their boss had brought his suspicious glare back to their side of the table, he cleared his throat and asked with feigned politeness, “Is something bothering you, Alana?”

 

“No,” she clipped. “Should there be?”

 

Jack scoffed lightly and shook his head. “That’s to be determined.”

 

_‘Wow, what a prick. Is he always like this?’_

 

Will’s eyes shot to the source of the gravely voice — Garrett Jacob Hobbs, still seated directly opposite himself, was staring at Jack with an annoyed grimace on his sickly face.

 

“Stop,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth to shield the fact that he was talking to what he knew was an empty chair… It _was_ empty, right?

 

_‘How can this seat be empty, dingbat? I’m sitting in it. You’re looking right at me; I’m looking right at you. You hear me talking to you…’_

 

“Stop- stop that,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Go away.”

 

“What?”

 

Will jerked his attention back to the rest of the table to find both Alana and Jack squinting at him, each wearing their own brand of concern. “I… Uh, what?”

 

“Did you say something to me?” Jack asked.

 

He shook his head and forced a smile. “Just talking to myself. Like I do… I-I do that sometimes.”

 

Alana quirked a brow, evidently unconvinced. “About what?”

 

“Oh, I… uh…” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes as he scrambled for a believable response. “Just, um, wh-what’s taking them so long? It’s getting pretty late, don’t you think?”

 

 _‘Wow, stellar acting.’_ Hobbs muttered, beginning a slow clap that grew progressively faster and louder as he spoke. _‘They have no idea… you’re losing… your goddamn mind…’_

 

Will suddenly slammed his hands on the edge of the table and shoved his chair back, jumping to his feet. “I-I’m gonna go see if they need any help,” he announced, much louder than intended. He only managed one step past Alana’s chair, however, before Hannibal and Delilah reentered the room and he had to stop himself from shouting profanities as he begrudgingly forced himself back into his seat.

 

Annoyed though he was at his sudden lack of an escape route, he was grateful for the distraction — but his gratuity disappeared at once when he saw Hannibal step away from the serving tray he had pushed into the room and begin tugging at the chair across from his own. He watched in horror as Hannibal pulled Hobbs’ chair out and proceeded to guide Delilah Bloom directly onto the man’s lap. “Shit- NO, WAIT!”

 

The entire room froze and turned their attention to Will. He glanced quickly around at them all, each looking varying degrees of confused and startled, then looked frantically back to the chair Hannibal still had his hands on… only to find it was empty. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was nowhere to be found.

 

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Jack demanded, rising from his seat and leaning forward — the better to scowl across the table at him.

 

Will took a few deep breaths and swiftly scanned the room again before, thinking quickly, he rushed around the head of the table. “I-I-I thought I saw a spider,” he stammered, pretending to investigate Delilah’s chair.

 

“You shouted at us over a spider?” Hannibal inquired, brow quirked in mild amusement.

 

Delilah opened her mouth to add something but a high-pitched shriek was suddenly heard from the opposite end of the table, giving everyone a start. “Did he say _spider_?!” Mrs. Komeda screamed in abject horror. “Where- Where is it now? Oh god, what did it look like; where did it go?”

 

“Jesus Christ, woman,” Jack grumbled, “would you just calm down?”

 

“I am _severely_ allergic to brown recluses, I’ll have you know!”

 

Will sighed and dug his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them hard enough to see spots of colour behind his lids. “Brown recluse aren’t even native to Maryland, Mrs. Komeda.”

 

“W-Well, I-I,” she began to splutter, but Will turned away from her to smile apologetically at Hannibal and Delilah. 

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Must have been a shadow.”

 

“A flicker from the fireplace, maybe?” Delilah offered, smiling at him in the way people do when they’re marginally worried you may suddenly pounce and maul them.

 

He laughed in spite of himself, then nodded and backed away, offering another muttered apology before slumping back over to his own seat.

 

* * *

 

 

Delilah watched closely as Will moved back around the table, her concern growing as she noticed the beads of sweat gathered around his hairline. She observed Alana staring pointedly at him, though he pretended not to notice, before clearing her throat and gingerly taking her seat. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Jack Crawford slowly sit back down directly beside her and her nerves came back with a vengeance. She had very nearly forgotten her initial shock — what with Will’s bizarre little arachnid panic — that she was seated next to the very last person she would like to sit with, and she shot Hannibal an incredulous glare; he seemed entirely unruffled, however, as he gently eased her chair closer to the table.

 

“Thank you,” she said, keeping hold of necessary politeness while filing away a slew of questions she had for him, for later. He simply smiled and sat her dish down in front of her, before making his way around the table to serve everyone else.

 

“Delilah, is everything okay?” her sister called across the table, sounding worried – too worried.

 

At the tone of Alana's voice, six other sets of eyes were doing a terrible job of pretending not to watch her nosily. Hannibal was too busy uncorking a bottle of wine and filling everyone's glasses to join in the stare down, but she noticed his lips were just slightly pursed in what she imagined to be annoyance.

 

Prying her eyes away from Hannibal, she tried on what she hoped to be a reassuring smile and looked back to her sister. “I'm fine, Alana… Elder siblings always think of themselves as second parents, don't they?” she added, to no one in particular. Light chuckling was sprinkled around the table before conversations started up and Delilah quickly dropped her gaze to the food before her; she knew full well that Alana was still staring at her, but she decided to take a page from Will’s book and simply refused to acknowledge it.

 

Rounding the table to stand at the helm, Hannibal poured himself a glass of wine and gently tapped one of his forks against the stem. The chatter quickly died down and the table turned its full attention toward him.

 

“Good evening,” he began, smiling as he waited patiently for everyone to take up their glasses. “We begin tonight with shameless decadence — veal heart tartare, with grilled crostini…” He paused a moment to make brief eye contact with each of his guests before continuing. “I know that many of you may be little more than strangers to each other now, but I hope that by the end of the night you will all see each other as, at the very least, pleasant acquaintances.” He shot a very quick, but pointed glance in Jack's direction and it wasn't lost on Delilah; she clamped her mouth shut to disguise an amused huff as a delicate clearing of her throat and shot a sideways look to the FBI agent, herself — judging by the irritated look on his face, he hadn't missed it either.

 

Once everyone had shared a brief air-toast and Hannibal had taken his seat, Delilah took a long swig of her cabernet and absently listened to the clinking sounds and delighted murmurs fluttering around the room, while she eyed her dish with slight apprehension. Setting her glass down, she gingerly scooped a small spoonful of the tartare onto a baguette round, casually glancing to Hannibal as she brought it to her lips. Though his attention appeared to be fixed on the group as a whole, she could see him stealing glances at her as she took her first bite.

 

Raw meat, of any kind, had never really been high on Delilah's list of foods to try; it sounded mildly disgusting, in fact, and quite possibly dangerous — she assumed that was just the ingrained American ignorance talking, though, and as she savored that first bite, she found herself pleasantly surprised. The tartare was quite cold and smooth; slightly sweet, with a vinegary bite from the capers and pickles mixed within; the tiny chili she had watched Hannibal deftly slice to shreds, which were now all but invisible in the mixture, packed quite an unexpected punch of heat, as well. The crunchy bread, delicious in its own right, helped to offset the extreme tenderness of the meat and after that first little nibble, she found she immediately craved more. There was a strangely powerful, almost sensual feeling that came along with eating raw flesh… Shameless decadence, indeed.

 

“And how do you find the tartare, Miss Bloom?” Hannibal inquired, and it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her.

 

Resisting the immediate urge to reply with a sarcastic remark about using her eyeballs, she took a second to dab at her lips with her napkin and smiled. “It’s delicious, Dr. Lecter,” she replied before taking another sip of her wine. He stared at her a moment before smirking down at his plate.

 

“You seem surprised.”

 

“I’ll certainly admit I had some reservations about eating raw organ meat…”

 

“How this man can transform offal into such delectable fine dining, I swear I’ll never understand,” Mrs. Komeda butted in, her obnoxious voice carrying down the table with what appeared to be very little effort on her part.

 

“You flatter me too much, Mrs. Komeda,” Hannibal replied with a warm smile, though Delilah distinctly heard a hint of irritation in his tone. He then rose to his feet and quickly began retrieving everyone's empty dishes, pausing to thank people as they praised the first course. He disappeared to fetch the main course and, as the others dissolved into idle chatter, Delilah took the time to study Will and her sister as she nursed her wine. They were talking animatedly, laughing every so often, and she smiled happily as she finally turned her attention to the centerpieces she'd been so eager to investigate earlier.

 

At the farthest end of the table, sat a wide vase filled with fresh cut flowers, some of which she knew by eye – pale lilies, deep red roses, and vibrant irises, along with plucked violet blossoms that were spotted sprinkled amongst a circling of plums – but there were two others she couldn't place. She overheard the pale brunette, Lenora, discussing the centerpieces with Mrs. Komeda and she cleared her throat gently. “Pardon me, but do you know what those taller blossoms are?”

 

“The ones that somewhat resemble tulips are crocus,” Lenora replied, her tone politely educational. “The stalks with many smaller blossoms are larkspur.”

 

Mrs. Komeda nearly choked on a swig of her beverage. “A Prima Donna _and_ a botanist? How on earth are you still single?”

 

“What a funny bouquet,” Bella mused, studying the flowers as she absently swirled the wine in her glass. “If I'm remembering my Greek mythology correctly, I believe these are all the very flowers Persephone was said to be picking when she was abducted by Hades.”

 

Jack cut in with a sharp laugh. “Doctor Lecter always paints quite the picture with his table settings.”

 

The rest of the more knowledgeable party laughed and nodded in agreement, while Delilah felt a funny tingle creep up her spine. She may have thought it a coincidence and nothing more, had the middle centerpiece not been full of pomegranates — the bowl was nearly overflowing with nothing but the mottled red fruits, with one haphazardly split open, perched at the top, and bleeding its scarlet juices over the rest.

 

From the first, to the second, and on still to the third display, cypress branches crept along like feathery hands clawing their way from one destination to the next; joining them halfway between the second and third centerpieces, were gorgeous peacock eyes. The feathers, splayed elegantly upon the table runner, were then accompanied by small animal bones to encircle the final display which rested in the space directly in front of her place setting.

 

This final bowl, shallow and wide, was filled nearly to the brim with glass-like water. Atop the surface, sat a massive lotus blossom – the single largest lotus blossom she had ever seen. It was a stunning, deep bluish-purple and she felt another shiver as she internally warred with herself not to reach out and touch it – curious as to whether it was actually real.

 

Before she could lose the battle, Will ducked his head to catch her eye and offered a lopsided grin. “Hey weirdo,” he called across the table and she blinked away from the lotus to stare blankly at him before snorting softly.

 

“You're calling _me_ weird, babyface?”

 

Will slapped a hand to his cheek and rubbed at the smoothly shaven skin. “Yeah, yeah. Trust me, after tonight, no-shave November is coming early this year.”

 

“Oh, joy. Then you won’t be babyface Will, you’ll be lumberjack Will.”

 

“You two seem awfully chummy,” Jack suddenly interrupted; she could feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of her head but she steadfastly refused to look at him. “Eh?” he pressed on. “Something going on with you two?”

 

“Ew, what? No!” Delilah blurted out at once, entirely without thinking.

 

“' _Ew?'_ ” Will affected a thoroughly wounded look as he mimed stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, ouch!” he added with an exaggerated wince, making her laugh again.

 

“How many times do I have to tell you, Graham? You're not my type.”

 

“Neither are you, Bloom,” he fired back, nostrils flaring as he grinned at her.

 

Mrs. Komeda clicked her tongue pensively. “Ohhh, I don't kno-ow,” she said in a singsong that made Delilah's hands itch with a strong desire to smash the woman’s face into the table. “Methinks the pair doth protest too mu-uch!”

 

“Which pair is protesting – and what?” Hannibal’s voice suddenly inquired. He eyed them all with amused curiosity as he pushed the cart now laden with one massive, covered tray and another smaller one, along with a stack of fine china plates. He removed the larger cloche with a flourish to reveal two beautifully displayed racks of lamb; the scent of roasted meat and herbs danced across the room as he began meticulously plating, to serve each guest individually.

 

“The sweet pair sitting across from each other at the head of your table,” Mrs. Komeda simpered, her grating voice slowly chipping away at Delilah's resolve not to snap at the woman. “They seem awfully... what was the word you used, Agent Crawford?”

 

“Chummy,” he replied flatly and Delilah shot him a brief sideways glance to find that he was, unsurprisingly, glaring straight at her.

 

“Yeah, chummy. We think there may be something going on between them,” she continued, her tone rife with manufactured scandal. “What do you say, Doctor? You're the expert on human behaviour here.”

 

Hannibal froze in the midst of setting Delilah's plate in front of her and she was acutely aware of his incredibly close proximity. He scoffed quietly and she peeked at him out the corner of her eye to watch as he slowly licked his bottom lip, evidently mulling over what he'd like to say – when Mr. Komeda suddenly let out an exasperated groan.

 

“Oh please, woman, _enough_ ,” he groused. “You think everyone and their bookkeeper is having some torrid love affair – these are real people with real lives, not one of your angst-riddled novels.”

 

The entire room was silent for a long moment, before Hannibal chuckled softly. “Far be it from me to start a feminist war at my dining table, but I must advise you to listen to your husband; let's keep the gossip out of dinner tonight, shall we?” He straightened up and rested a hand on the back of Delilah's chair, his thumb brushing against her bare skin.

 

Delilah cleared her throat delicately and tossed back the last of her wine before muttering, “Great minds discuss ideas...”

 

A delighted snort of a laugh escaped the woman to Jack's left at once and Delilah leaned back to grin over at her. “Gosh, I can’t seem to recall the rest of it,” she mused, tapping a finger to her bottom lip.

 

“Average minds discuss events and _small_ minds discuss people,” she supplied quickly, grinning back at her before looking up to Hannibal. “She quotes Roosevelt?”

 

“She quotes _everything_ ,” Alana interjected with a laugh.

 

“I like this one,” Bella continued, reaching around behind Jack to pat her on the arm. “You should invite her to dinner more often.”

 

Delilah tilted her head up to smile cheerily at Hannibal and he smirked in return. “I had a strong suspicion you two would become friendly,” he said.

 

“At _my_ expense,” grumbled Mrs. Komeda, but no one seemed to be paying her any mind, and Hannibal simply chuckled as he returned to serving his guests.

 

“So, Delilah,” Bella said, nudging Jack out of the way just as he was in the middle of taking a swig of wine, “tell me about yourself – what do you do for a living?”

 

Jack shot his wife an annoyed look, then scooted his chair a foot away from the table to drink in peace.

 

Delilah laughed and he turned his glower to her, but she pointedly ignored it. “I'm a barista at a little coffee shop.”

 

“Oh, fun! Do you-”

 

Sardonic laughter erupted from Mrs. Komeda and the pair looked to her questioningly. “Sorry to intrude,” she began, not sounding apologetic in the slightest, “but did you say you're a _barista_?”

 

Delilah nodded, mildly confused, and the woman let out another snort of derision. “Oh please, sweetheart, this isn't _Italy_. Don't be so pretentious.”

 

“That was remarkably rude, Mrs. Komeda,” Hannibal chastised, setting the last plate down before moving to prepare his own. “I see you are striving to become an expert at testing my patience tonight.”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-… Sorry.”

 

“…Well, guess we’ll just be acquaintances,” Delilah mumbled, garnering a snicker from Bella and her sister, along with a superbly sarcastic _‘aw, shucks’_ from Will.

 

Once the awkwardness dissipated once more, conversation with Bella continued as they ate and Jack slowly seemed to warm up to her — slightly. He never participated in their conversation, but he did keep himself out of their way to allow them to talk and soon he seemed to be glaring at her much less. It was progress, at least.

 

As for the lamb, it was exactly as a main course should be — the unequivocal star of the evening. Superbly roasted, it was succulent and rich, and unquestioningly the most tender cuts of lamb Delilah had ever had the pleasure to sink her teeth into. The side dish he had chosen paired perfectly with it, as well — gently minted asparagus spears, with shaved radishes no thicker than a sheet of vellum.

 

“Where do you find such exquisite cuts of meat, Hannibal?” Jack asked as he gestured toward his empty plate.

 

“I think it has less to do with the butcher and more to do with the chef,” Mrs. Komeda cut in. “The man’s a veritable magician in the kitchen."

 

Hannibal paused a moment and Delilah watched a wry smile play across his lips. “And a good magician never reveals his secrets,” he replied, eliciting a laugh from Mrs. Komeda that was a grating mix between a cackle and a giggle.

 

“That’s just what he wants you to think,” Delilah said, pointedly raising her voice loud enough to carry over and stifle Mrs. Komeda’s squawking; she grinned at Hannibal before glancing down the table at the others. “He just doesn’t want you all bogarting his butcher.”

 

Jack laughed and nodded. “You know what, I think you might be right.”

 

Shocked that he had finally decided to speak to her directly — sans glaring, no less — Delilah blinked over at him for a moment before joining him in laughter and looking to Hannibal with a pleased, albeit puzzled, expression. Hannibal simply inclined his head and gave her the briefest of winks, as if to say, ‘See? I told you everything would be fine.’

 

“You’ve caught me,” Hannibal announced, playfully tossing his hands up before rising from his seat. “Now, _I_ think it’s time for dessert and strong coffee,” he said, casually setting about retrieving the empty plates while allowing more time to those still finishing up. “Would anyone care to assist? …Will?”

 

Delilah looked to the man in question and was immediately filled with concern. He seemed incredibly twitchy again and was fixated on something in the corner, near the living wall of herbs. She turned just enough in her seat to see if he had relocated that elusive spider, but she herself found nothing of interest.

 

“Will?” Hannibal called again, waving a hand in his face before taking his plate.

 

Will suddenly jerked his attention away from whatever had him so transfixed and looked up to Hannibal with wide, harried eyes. “What?”

 

“Would you mind helping me with dessert?”

 

“Oh, uh, s-sure. Yeah.” He jumped to his feet, inhaling sharply and glancing around at everyone as if he were about to justify his bizarre behaviour — then evidently changed his mind and marched wordlessly out of the room.

 

Hannibal stared after him, then quickly gathered the last of the dishes and followed Will to the kitchen.

 

“… My, my, my,” Mrs. Komeda muttered, clicking her tongue sadly. “Does anyone else get the impression that that young man is on drugs?”

 

Both Delilah and Alana pried their worried eyes from the doorway to glare at her at once, each poised and ready to lay into the woman, but it was Jack who spoke first. “Considering that that young man works for me — to even suggest such a thing is not only an insult to his character, but it brings my judgement into question. So, tell me, Mrs. Komeda, are you questioning my judgement?”

 

“Well, I mean-”

 

“I’m gonna ask you to think carefully before you finish that sentence.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal arrived in the kitchen to find Will, unsurprisingly, frenetically pacing within. He paused beside the pantry and stood still against the wall, watching the man with casual interest. He could hear voices growing louder and angrier back in the dining room, but forced himself to ignore it as he waited for Will to notice his presence.

 

“I wish you would leave me alone, damn it,” he whispered, suddenly rushing to the sink to douse his face with handfuls of cold water from the tap.

 

Canting his head, Hannibal frowned slightly and slipped his hands into his pockets. “This is my kitchen.”

 

Will jumped as though he’d been shot at and whipped around, staring at him with fear in his eyes before laughing nervously and grabbing a hand towel to dry off his face. “Sorry, not you,” he mumbled.

 

“Then who? There is no one else in this room,” he replied quietly, gesturing about to prove his point as he moved to retrieve two trays of ramekins from the fridge.

 

Inhaling deeply and exhaling with an explosive sigh, Will shrugged and shook his head. “N-No one. Never mind. What are those?”

 

“… Plum and cardamom crème brûlée — you’re deflecting, Will.”

 

“Yeah, well… Now’s not the time,” he muttered.

 

“Now is as good a time as any,” Hannibal countered, grabbing a bag of turbinado sugar and a spoon. “You may clear the serving cart while you tell me precisely to whom you were speaking.”

 

Letting out a small huff, Will shook his head again, refusing to comment as he set about gathering the plates from the serving cart and transferring them to the sink.

 

“Perhaps I could venture a guess…”

 

“No, it’s nothing,” Will insisted. “I’m just tired.”

 

“Does this nothing of yours present itself in the form of one Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

 

After a beat of silence, Hannibal glanced up from sprinkling sugar atop the custards to find Will staring at him with such pure shock that it was very nearly comical. “Oh please,” he said, “who else could possibly be haunting you other than the man you’ve murdered?”

 

“I didn’t-… I-I had to protect-“

 

“Of course. You took a life to save another — there’s no sense mincing words, William. You aimed the gun, that held the bullet; and pulled the trigger, that fired the shot-“

 

“That killed the rat, that ate the cheese, that lay in the house that Jack built?”

 

Hannibal blinked at him for a moment before snorting lightly and returning his attention to his task. “I know you’re trying to be funny, but I believe you’ve inadvertently hit the nail right on the head."

 

“…Are you suggesting it’s Jack’s fault I’m hallucinating?”

 

“I am rather insisting that you know it is Jack’s fault. He built a funhouse of blood and death around you and you’re losing touch with reality.”

 

“It’s just the insomnia-”

 

“That Jack built.”

 

Silence followed and it was a thoroughly welcome one, as he felt he had made his point quite clear. Locating his culinary torch, Hannibal took his time adjusting the flame to the precise intensity needed for caramelizing the sugar, then carefully began to brûlée each ramekin to golden perfection.

 

“Smells great,” Will muttered, fidgeting in his peripheral.

 

“Mhm.” Leaving the crème brûlées to cool, he moved to the French press and began preparing the coffee. “Would you mind transferring the ramekins to the cart?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Once the coffee beans had been sufficiently ground, steeped, and pressed, he gathered  the large carafe of fresh coffee, along with all the necessary accoutrements, and placed them neatly beside the ramekins. Hannibal took one last look over the spread, then finally turned to observe Will once more. “Do you think you can keep yourself together for another half hour, or so?”

 

Will took a deep breath and nodded jerkily, then paced quickly back to the sink to water his face again and Hannibal sighed. “Perhaps Alana should just take you home.”

 

“No. No, I’m f-fine.” He scrubbed his face with the hand towel one last time, then laid it over the edge of the sink and forced a smile. “My name is Will Graham, I’m in Baltimore, Maryland, and it’s…” He paused to peer down at his watch. “Eight forty-two. See? I’m fine. Do you want me to draw a clock again?”

 

Hannibal didn’t need to see another melted clock scribble to know that the encephalitis was worsening — the proliferation of his hallucinations told him as much. He decided then that he would be sure Will visited a neurologist within the next week… maybe two, depending on his progress.

 

“No,” he replied with a small smile, “you don’t need to draw a clock right now. I believe you. I would advise abstaining from any intimacy with Alana, however; you seem to be coming down with some sort of flu.”

 

“Wh-… I-I-I… I mean, why d’you- I-“

 

“Why? I have eyes, of course.”

 

“Wh- ha, well, I mean, of course I have f- uh… I mean, she’s gorgeous. Did you see that dress?” When Hannibal simply stared back at him, he became ever more flustered and attempted to backpedal. “I-I-I mean, that’s not the only reason- she’s really intelligent, too. And, and-“

 

Taking a couple quick steps forward, Hannibal quieted the man’s blathering with a brief touch of his palm to his forehead; he then brandished the light sheen that coated his skin before crossing to wash his hands. “You have a fever. I’ll be sure to suggest to Jack that he allow you to rest for a few days.”

 

Clearly pleased they were off the subject of Alana, Will nodded vigorously and cleared his throat. “Y-Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Thanks.”

 

“Of course. Let’s try to leave your ghost in the kitchen, so we may enjoy dessert without further interruption, alright?”

 

Will offered a sheepish frown of a smile and nodded, then took it upon himself to push the serving cart back into the dining room while Hannibal followed close behind.

 

* * *

 

If Lenora had learned anything from the incredibly eventful evening, it was that she would never again agree to carpool with the Komedas. If she’d taken a cab, she would have surely feigned illness and excused herself well before the lamb. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the meal, but rather that she couldn’t stand most of the company. Mr. Komeda was a wet blanket, as always, and his wife was as odious as ever; everyone else seemed twisted up in something, or things, she did not care to even begin to understand; and Dr. Lecter himself was too far away to hold any sustainable conversation. Honestly, the night was boring as all get-out and she was just grateful that there was decent food and wine. The centerpieces were very pretty to look at, as well.

 

While their host and his more peculiar guest were occupied gathering dessert, she kept quiet and observed the chaos Mr. Komeda’s wife had stirred up in the span of mere moments.

 

“I am not questioning your judgement at all, Agent Crawford,” Mrs. Komeda replied carefully. “I am merely speaking out of concern for that nice young man.”

 

“Oh bullshit,” Delilah chimed in with a scoff. “You’ve been making snide little remarks all night. Why Dr. Lecter has even allowed you to stay, I have no idea.”

 

“I was only-“

 

“You were only being a first class, grade A bitch,” Alana snapped loudly, and Lenora had to cover her mouth with her napkin to stifle a surprised laugh. “Hannibal is just too damn polite to say as much.”

 

Mrs. Komeda floundered for a comeback and Lenora watched the patchy flush of one who’d been properly chastised begin to creep up from beneath the powdery layer of makeup she had caked onto her face; it spread down her neck in ugly splotches and she began hilariously fighting with her chair in an attempt to move away from the table.

 

“I don’t have to take this abuse, you know!” She shouted, standing too soon and sending her chair thundering backward. Her husband finally came to life and quickly moved to sit the chair back upright, while Mrs. Komeda sniffed indignantly and threw her cloth napkin down on the table. He sat back down, staring up at her questioningly, and she cleared her throat before gingerly retaking her seat. “I-It’s impolite to just leave without thanking the host,” she muttered, “but trust me, when Dr. Lecter comes back we are leaving.”

 

“Hallelujah,” Lenora whispered under her breath, just as Jack Crawford barked a laugh and exclaimed, “Good riddance!”

 

“Jack,” his wife hissed, clearly going for a warning tone though she was doing a piss-poor job of hiding her own snort of laughter.

 

Delilah clicked her tongue in mock sadness and pouted down the table at Mrs. Komeda. “Aw, what a shame. Know that your presence will be _ever_ -so-missed,” she simpered, doing a remarkably decent impression of the older woman — much to everyone else’s amusement.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Hannibal and Will reentered the dining room, the former didn’t seem at all surprised, nor particularly disappointed, to learn of Mrs. Komeda’s sudden desire to leave. After a terse farewell, Hannibal disappeared to see the lot out and Delilah watched Will dish out their desserts in silence. Everyone left at the table seemed to be waiting to hear that front door close and when it finally did, there was an audible, collective sigh of relief.

 

“Finally. Jeez, what a bitch,” she muttered, rising from her seat just as Will sat a delicious-looking crème brûlée down in front of her.

 

Will frowned. “I mean, I know I brought you your dessert last, princess, but that’s no reason to name-call.”

 

“Not you, doofus. Go sit down.”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

She snorted lightly and stepped over to the serving cart, pouring herself and Will each a cup of black coffee before preparing Alana’s with two sugars and a splash of cream, as she knew she liked it. “Jack, Bella, how do you take your coffee?”

 

“Are you sure you’re qualified to do that?” Jack asked, his tone serious enough to her ears to give her pause; she turned to scowl at him just as he added, “After all, this isn’t Italy.”

 

Hannibal’s low chuckle joined the rest as he reentered the room. “I apologize on behalf of Mrs. Komeda’s behaviour; such a shame she chose tonight to be so blatantly tactless.”

 

“I thought people like her were fluent in doublespeak,” Alana said, “but I guess she missed that lesson in finishing school.”

 

“Do finishing schools even exist anymore?” Delilah wondered aloud before returning her attention to Jack and Bella. “Your coffees?”

 

“He prefers a dash of coffee with his cream and sugar,” Bella replied, tossing her husband a wry smirk. “But I’ll just stick with my wine, thank you. If I have caffeine at this hour I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”

 

“Fair enough. I drink so much coffee and I’ve built up such a caffeine tolerance that it hardly effects me anymore,” she mused, inwardly cringing as she fixed Jack’s incredibly pale cup of ‘coffee.’

 

“Really? I would think you’d be sick of the stuff after making it for other people all day.”

 

Alana snorted and shook her head. “This one drinks coffee while she gets ready to go _out_ for coffee; hell, she even drinks it to unwind before going to bed.”

 

“Isn’t that a bit, um, counterproductive?” Will inquired, taking his cup from Delilah with a small half-smile and a nod of thanks.

 

“What can I say? I’m an enigma,” she replied, passing Alana and Jack their coffees before turning to find Hannibal quietly observing them all from beside the cart. “Would you like to prepare your own, or shall I?”

 

“Oh, please do,” he said, stepping aside and taking his seat. 

 

“How would you like it?”

 

“I trust you,” he said simply.

 

She smiled warmly and poured him a cup of black coffee, then stirred in half a teaspoon of sugar and set it down beside his crème brûlée as she took her seat. “I figured you’d appreciate a little sweetness.”

 

Hannibal paused in the midst of lifting the cup to his lips and smirked, but chose not to comment and took a long, slow sip. As his tongue slid out to catch a drip of coffee on his lower lip and he hummed contentedly, Delilah averted her gaze and hoped her cheeks didn’t appear as warm as they felt. “Perfect, thank you,” he said, his voice an octave much closer to a seductive rumble than she felt it should be in mixed company. Luckily, Jack was there to divert any potential attention back toward himself.

 

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” he said. “Could use a little more sugar, but this is a damn fine cup of Joe.”

 

At Delilah’s disgusted nose-crinkle, Bella laughed and nodded in agreement. “I know, it’s ridiculous.”

 

“Oh hush, woman,” Jack griped, his deep voice clearly attempting to sound severe though he had a lighthearted grin on his face.

 

After the altercation with Mrs. Komeda and her subsequent blessed departure, the atmosphere in the dining room felt at least ten times lighter and Jack seemed to have warmed up to Delilah nearly completely. He still seemed a touch leery of her, though, and proceeded to ask her seemingly innocuous questions that she knew he damn well knew the answers to — things like, ‘So, where do you work again?’ and ‘What are your hobbies?’

 

It was obvious he was simply testing to see if he could catch her being disingenuous, but quite honestly she couldn’t care less. The questions were easy enough to answer and each time he studied her for some hint of floundering or nerves, he seemed ever more pleased, which in turn made her feel much more confident in the entire situation. It occurred to her then that perhaps this had been Hannibal’s plan all along; perhaps he had even gone so far as to invite Mrs. Komeda, knowing that she would be a problem. It seemed ludicrous, but she had a feeling it was just ludicrous enough to be entirely true. He had told her, after all, that he was thoroughly determined to keep her murderous little secret.

 

“Ballet, huh? Bella loves that crap; drags me to every Nutcracker and Swan thing she can find. Would we have seen you in any performances?”

 

“Oh no, it’s just a hobby,” she replied with an amused snort. “Generally speaking, you have to have been practicing straight out of the womb to ever hope to have a career in ballet.”

 

“That… is a terrifying visual. Thanks for the nightmare fuel,” Will muttered, making her laugh again.

 

“If you have nightmares about ballet-dancing newborns tonight, please let me know,” she insisted, entirely serious. “And draw me a picture because it sounds hilarious.”

 

Will choked on a swig of coffee and covered his mouth with his napkin, half-laughing, half-coughing into it as Alana patted his back. He let out one last cough to clear his lungs, then sighed and mock-scowled over at her. “Listen, if I manage to get any sleep tonight and your dumb ass ballet babies wake me up, I won’t just draw you a picture, I’ll show up at your apartment and sing _Henry the Eighth_ at the top of my lungs so you can’t get any sleep, either — and I can’t sing to save my life, so- so, have fun with that.”

 

“Ooh, _Ghost_ reference. Nice.”

 

“On that note,” Jack interjected with a chuckle, “I think we’d better head out. Dinner was delicious as always, Hannibal.”

 

“Absolutely — and this crème brûlée? Perfection.” Bella added.

 

Hannibal smiled warmly as he rose from the table along with them. “Thank you for gracing my dining room with your presence,” he said, somehow managing not to sound sarcastic in the slightest. “I’ll see you out.”

 

“I’ll come too,” Alana announced hastily. “I actually have some things to talk with Jack about.”

 

“Let’s just have a going away party in the foyer, shall we?” Bella said, suddenly hooking her arm around Delilah’s and dragging her along. As they followed the others back to the entrance, she leaned near and spoke in a hush, “Listen, I don’t have a lot of girlfriends and you don’t seem like a bitch… Would you maybe want to go to lunch, or something, sometime?”

 

Delilah blinked at her and let out a bemused giggle. “Why are you whispering like you’re asking me out on a date?”

 

“Well, I… I guess I kind of am,” she replied, frowning slightly. “Is that wrong?”

 

At Delilah’s astonished, utter loss for words, she let out a peal of laughter and gave her arm a shake. “I’m just kidding!”

 

“Oh, thank god,” she breathed, pressing a palm to her forehead and letting out a relieved titter. “You scared the shit out of me. Jesus. I thought things were about to get real awkward here.”

 

Wiping away a tear, Bella shook her head and laughed again. “No. You’re cute and all, but I’m definitely not gay.”

 

“Neither am I,” she replied, her gaze unconsciously drifting toward Hannibal. She watched his teeth graze his bottom lip as he laughed amidst conversing with the others, and suddenly heard Bella mutter, ‘ _oh no._ ’

 

“What?”

 

“I saw that look,” she said, lowering her voice again, speaking seriously now. “I know it well. That’s the same look I used to give Jack.”

 

“Used to?”

 

“We’ve probably been married since you were in grade school, Delilah. _That_ was the look you give someone you’ve just begun falling for.”

 

Before she could stamp down her panic sufficiently enough to craft some sort of excuse, Bella offered a sympathetic smile and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, it’s common for people to develop feelings for their therapists — you see them on a regular basis and tell them your deepest, darkest secrets… Just don’t act on it, alright? All you’ll gain is the loss of a great psychiatrist.”

 

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Jack called across the foyer, squinting warily at them.

 

“I’m was just informing Delilah that we’re friends now and she has to go shopping with me sometime,” she lied smoothly, keeping a firm grip on Delilah’s shoulders as she guided her over to the others. 

 

“Ha, sucker,” he exclaimed, his suspicion abruptly shifting to amusement. “Hope you’re ready for hours upon hours of following her around, carrying piles of clothes, and telling her for the thousandth time she looks great and ‘no, that dress doesn’t make your butt look like a-’”

 

“Watch it, mister,” she warned, grinning as she turned back to Delilah. “Alright, come on. I left my phone in the car.”

 

“Do you need to call someone? I’m sure Dr. Lecter has a house ph-”

 

“So you can put your number in it, silly.” She took a moment to thank Hannibal for dinner and allow him to slip her coat back on her shoulders, then linked arms with Delilah again and urged her out the door. “Come on.”

 

“Er, alright…” She laughed softly and shook her head, choosing to tolerate being muscled out to a monstrous black escalade rather than argue.

 

As Bella rifled around inside the cabin for her cell phone, Delilah could hear Jack and Alana speaking in grouchy whispers several paces behind them. The FBI agent seemed to be getting progressively more frustrated as she heard him snap, “You don’t get to tell me how to do my job, Alana!”

 

“Aha!” Bella suddenly exclaimed, shoving her phone into Delilah’s hands. “Thought I left it on the console, but I put it in the glove compartment. My mind is so scattered these days…”

 

Gnawing on her bottom lip, Delilah quickly entered her number into Bella’s phone, then handed it back with a forced smile and turned away just as a very irritated Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom stepped up to the vehicle. “Well, uh, it was nice meeting you Agent Crawford, Bella-”

 

“Alright, listen up,” he growled, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat and looking much like a child being forced to apologize for hitting. “I’m going to level with you, partly because my wife likes you, but mostly because your sister won’t shut up if I don’t.”

 

“Okay…”

 

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you personally had contact with two of the bodies that were found last week. One, in particular, being a man you had some sort of squabble with not too long ago — does Matthew Nelson ring any bells?”

 

Delilah cleared her throat and offered a twitchy nod, as she wrapped her arms around herself and dug her fingernails into her sides. “Yeah- Yes, I know who that is.”

 

“ _Was_ ,” he corrected sternly. “Just weeks after you were both found bloody and he was found beaten, the man ends up gutted and spread all over his own kitchen floor. Now, I know you’re not a detective, but if you were given those pieces of information, what conclusion do you suppose _you_ would come up with?”

 

“I… I would suspect me, of course,” she replied quietly. “I don’t blame you for keeping me on your radar, Agent Crawford. For what it’s worth, I admit I reacted impulsively that day, but I assure you I did not kill him.”

 

Jack stared her down long enough to make her fidget uncomfortably, then sighed and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry Ms. Bloom. Frankly, we don’t have any other leads and the media is going batshit over this — saying it’s either the Chesapeake Ripper again, or a shiny new serial killer they’ve coined as Baltimore’s own Michael Myers.”

 

“Michael… Wha-?”

 

“Because it’s so close to Halloween,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes toward the heavens.

 

Delilah scoffed humourlessly and shook her head. “Wow.”

 

“Yeah…” He sighed and moved to his wife’s side, slipping an arm around her waist and staring at her for a moment before looking back to Delilah. “Look, I’m not saying I trust you yet — at all — but will say I don’t blame you for what you did at that studio,” he said, catching her off-guard. “Hannibal told me what happened and if my wife had been touched like that I wouldn’t fault her for slamming the bastard’s face into a wall, either. You stood up for yourself and I can respect that.”

 

Thoroughly, pleasantly confused, Delilah blinked up at him for a moment, then nodded and smiled sadly. “I appreciate you saying that, Agent Crawford.”

 

“See you around, Ms. Bloom. Alana.” He nodded farewell to her sister and Delilah glanced over to find Alana staring at her, eyes wide and mouth agape, with a mixture of hurt and absolute shock on her face.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

 

“Really, Alana? We’re gonna do this _now_?”

 

Jack let out an uncomfortable chuckle and fished his keys out of his pocket as he rounded the front of his vehicle. “Uh, good night you two.”

 

Clearing her throat, Bella leaned into Delilah’s line of sight and smiled. “I’ll call you sometime this week and we’ll meet up for lunch or something, okay?”

 

“Sounds good. It was great meeting you, Bella.”

 

“Same. And it was good seeing you again, Alana. Good night.”

 

“Yeah, ‘night,” Alana grumbled, still scowling at her like a pissed off cat.

 

Delilah waved as she watched the escalade back out of the driveway, then glanced awkwardly at Alana as she passed by to return to the house.

 

“Now, wait just a second,” Alana snapped, grabbing her arm and whipping her back around to face her. “God d _amn_ it, why didn’t you tell me what he did to you? It- It makes everything seem so…”

 

“So? So _what_ , Alana? Does it suddenly just make everything clearer for you, to learn that some douchebag tried to put his hands on me? Does it just make so much sense now that your sister is a fucking lunatic?”

 

“I- I didn’t say-”

 

“You didn’t have to say it,” she clipped through gritted teeth. “I didn’t tell you about Matt because that didn’t fucking matter, Alana. He wasn’t the first piece of shit to try copping a feel and — not to sound conceited, but — he probably won’t be the last. Most men are pigs- scratch that, most people are pigs. Worthless, tactless pigs.

 

“You need to understand that and stop looking at the world through a rose-coloured blindfold. It honestly baffles me how you can be so naive sometimes… but I guess that’s why they say ‘those who can’t do, teach,’ right?”

 

Amidst her little tirade, Delilah vaguely noticed her sister’s eyes darting over periodically, to squint at something past her shoulder as if she were trying to make out the words on a blurry billboard off in the distance. “What? What the fuck are you looking at? Are you even listening to me?”

 

“Shut up,” she whispered, her eyes solely focused on whatever it was she saw behind her.

 

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

 

“Damn it, Delilah, shut up!” Alana suddenly shoved past her and hollered at the foliage to the left of Hannibal’s house, “Hey! Hey, I see you in there!”

 

“What the-?” Delilah whirled around, too confused to be upset anymore, to find a female with flaming red hair staggering out of the bushes and dusting herself off.

 

“Alright, alright. You caught me,” she said, tossing a rather feline smirk toward Alana as she plucked a stray twig from her wild curls. “Good eye, I’ll give you that.”

 

With a mix of realization and utter loathing on her face, Alana suddenly groaned, “Oh, son of a bitch…”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning!

**_Chapter 13_ **

_Hannibal Lecter’s Residence_

_9:02 PM_

_“Oh, son of a bitch.”_

“There’s no need for such language, Ala— Doctor Bloom.“ The redhead swiftly corrected herself as she plucked stray leaves from her hair. “… _May_ I call you —?”

“No.”

“Alright… Hello,” she called to Delilah, her slightly husky voice taking on an intrigued lilt. “Delilah, right? That’s such a pretty name. I’m Freddie Lounds. A journalist with —“

“You’re just a trashy tabloid blogger with way too much time on your hands, _Fredericka_ , and you can leave her out of this,” Alana cut her off with a sneer. “You’ve got some nerve, prowling around people’s homes in the middle of the night.”

“I’m just doing my job, Doctor Bloom,” she replied, throwing her gloved hands up and taking a small step to the side. Again, she tried to speak to Delilah directly. “Sounded like Agent Crawford was being his typical asshole self, Delilah — are you okay? Would you like to talk—”

Alana took one wide step to the left and another forward, effectively blocking her from Freddie’s view. “She is just fine. But I don’t think _you’ll_ be doing too well when Hannibal calls the police and presses charges against you for trespassing.”

“Hey, it happens,” Freddie said, sounding thoroughly unperturbed. “But, who knows, Doctor Lecter may not even care to press charges. You should go get him, so we can find out… I wouldn’t mind getting a statement from him. What about Will Graham — is he here, too?”

“You know damn well he is. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been crouching in the bushes like a mangy animal all afternoon.”

_‘All afternoon?’_

Delilah’s stomach did a flip and she leaned up on her toes to peer over her sister’s shoulder. “What- uh, what do you want with Will?” She asked, trying not to let Alana’s words burrow a hole of anxiety in her gut. How long _had_ she been in those bushes, though?

Freddie’s sharp lips fell into what appeared to be a frown of deep concern as she asked quietly, “How do you know Will Graham?”

When Delilah didn’t immediately respond, she inhaled sharply and shook her head. “You should stay away from that man; anyone who claims to _empathize_ with psychopathic murderers is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.”

Finding herself no longer keen to hear what she had to say, Delilah scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I think you should leave.”

“No, no, please stay,” Alana quickly cut in, her voice drenched in faux sweetness. “I’m dying to see you in handcuffs.”

“Kinky.”

Alana waved a hand dismissively and abruptly turned toward the house. “Hannibal!” She hollered, shooting Freddie a warning glare as she quick-stepped nearer to the front porch. “Hannibal, you need to come out here RIGHT NOW!”

Delilah turned, intending to follow, but the woman suddenly grabbed hold of her arm. “Wait, listen-“

“Please don’t touch me.”

“Sorry,” she said, letting go at once. “And I’m sorry if I upset you with what I said about Will Graham, but it’s true. One hundred percent. And if you think he’s your friend, well… I’m sure that’s a hard pill to swallow.”

Deciding she would rather avoid becoming a headline for this woman’s online rag, Delilah simply smiled and kept her thoughts — on precisely where Freddie could stick a hard pill — to herself. “You’re just doing your job, right?”

“Right,” she repeated, taking a deep breath and clearing her throat before adding gently, “Y’know, I’d suggest distancing yourself from Hannibal Lecter, too. There’s something… _off_ about him.” She paused and studied Delilah’s eyes for one long, remarkably uncomfortable moment. “…But I’m guessing that would be very difficult for you,” she muttered. “Are you two —”

“I said leave her out of this,” Alana suddenly snapped. She was back at Delilah’s side, forcing herself between them again as Hannibal and Will briskly made their way down the steps and across the driveway.

“Miss Lounds?” Hannibal greeted the redhead with mildly befuddled interest. “What brings you here this evening?”

“She was creeping around in the bushes,” Alana clipped before Freddie could so much as part her lips to speak, gesturing emphatically toward said foliage before crossing her arms and glowering at the woman.

“Naturally,” Will immediately muttered, loud enough for all to hear, “where else would a snake be found?”

A snort of laughter escaped Alana, but neither Freddie nor Hannibal seemed entertained in the slightest.

“Thank you both for your input, but I was speaking to Miss Lounds,” he gently chastised the pair, though he kept his eyes fixed on Freddie. “I’ll ask again — what brings you here this evening?”

Freddie fidgeted on her feet, clearly uncomfortable. “Oh, you know, this and that,” she skirted with a shrug. “Maybe a little more this than that… If it isn’t one thing, it’s another, you know?”

Brow knitted in confusion, Delilah casually stepped away from her sister and slowly meandered rightward; it wasn’t until her shoulder brushed against the sleeve of his suit jacket that she realized she had unwittingly gravitated toward Hannibal. She started to back up at once, intending to finally retreat into the house, but Hannibal’s hand was abruptly splayed firmly across the middle of her back, keeping her in place.

“Why don’t you come inside and have some coffee? I’m not sure how long you’ve been prowling about in the andromedas but you must be freezing.”

Everyone shot Hannibal varying looks of bewilderment, with Alana letting out a scoff of incredulity. “But she—”

“No thanks,” Freddie swiftly replied. “Coffee sounds great and all, but I’d better get going.”

“Very well.”

“It was very nice meeting you,” she said, pointedly looking to Delilah as she blindly rooted around in her coat pocket; she produced a very small stack of business cards and held one out. “Here’s my number. If you ever want to talk about… current events or, perhaps Jack Crawford —”

“And there it is,” Alana announced. “I fucking knew it. Just spit it out - what did you hear?”

“A lot of nonsense,” she spat without hesitation, dropping her arm and resting her hands on her hips. “Look. If you must know, I was only following Jack Crawford. There’s been radio silence from the FBI on the Sandy Point murders and I’m just doing my part to make sure our dear BSU department head is actually doing _his_ part — which, as it turns out, he isn’t.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Is that so, Doctor Bloom?” Freddie laughed humorlessly. “Rather than do his job, he’s attending dinner parties with his friends… Many of whom are supposed to be his employees, no less. On top of that, it sounded to me like he’s choosing to blindly point fingers at innocent people.” She shot a glance at Delilah. “These are all fun facts I’m sure the people would like to know, and I’m more than happy to tell them.”

“So, you followed Jack here, then? You weren’t here… before he arrived?” Delilah asked before she could stop herself.

“That’s right,” Freddie replied, turning to eye her with thinly veiled suspicion. “Why? Something else I should know about?”

Internalizing her sigh of relief, Delilah merely smiled and shook her head. “I was just curious.”

After a beat of silence, Freddie stepped forward and pushed her business card into Delilah’s hand. “Hope to hear from you,” she said quietly. The woman’s eyes flitted upward, to where Hannibal stood, still looming with his hand pressed against her back, and she watched her swallow a minuscule lump in her throat.

“Nice seeing you all,” she said, peeling her eyes away from him to look at Alana and Will. “We’ll catch up soon, I’m sure.” With that she turned and bustled off, her heels making loud, echoing clacks against the concrete.

Delilah vaguely wondered how she managed to move so speedily in high heels, when Alana suddenly snatched the card from her hand.

“Hey!” She exclaimed, more out of surprise than actual want for the item.

“Whatever she has to say, I’m sure we can read all about it online tomorrow,” Alana grumbled, ripping the card in two and stalking back into the house.

With a sigh, Delilah bent down to pick up the scraps of card stock, then glanced back at Hannibal and Will before following after her. She trailed her sister back into the dining room, where the woman was angrily gathering dishes from the table. “Let me help,” she muttered, setting the card bits on the table before taking a few glasses from her and setting them on the serving cart. They worked alone in silence for a few minutes before the men joined in and clean up duty became a collective effort.

Once the dishes were all taken care of, Delilah fished Hannibal’s key from his discarded suit jacket and let herself into the pantry to return the serving cart to its proper place. She tripped yet again on her way out and grouchily yanked the door shut behind her, jumping as it slammed much louder than she’d intended. Even Hannibal startled a fraction, while Alana hissed, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Well, that’s one way to break the remarkably painful silence,” Will muttered, offering a halfhearted, lopsided grin.

Delilah laughed softly and slipped the key back into Hannibal’s jacket. “Sorry.”

“Don’t contact Freddie Lounds,” Alana suddenly demanded, and Delilah blinked in surprise.

“ _What_ are you so worried about?”

“Does the term ' _sensationalized journalism’_ mean anything to you?” She snapped, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“So, she knows Jack suspects me in the Sandy Point murders and she writes a little blog post — so what?”

“So what?!” Alana exploded, her voice nearing pitches that would surely give Will’s dogs a panic attack. “Delilah, as much as I don’t understand why, people _do_ read the trash she puts on that blog!”

“So, people read that I’m being looked into because I happened to know some people-turned-carrion. People know other people all the time and people get hacked to bits all the time — neither of which automatically makes _me_ a viable suspect.”

“… Talking like that sure might.” Alana stared at her for a long moment, then sighed and roughly massaged her forehead, evidently trying to scrub away her discomfit. “You said out there that most people are pigs, right? Well, they’re also sheep. This could create a mess for you and… And I just don’t want you involved — in _any_ of this.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Hannibal muttered matter-of-factly.

Delilah pursed her lips and gestured toward Hannibal in agreement. “And anyway, in case you weren’t paying attention, she seems to believe I’m innocent — so, if anything, her interest will probably do me some good if my name ever happened to get out there otherwise.”

“The only person who’s name is on the line here, really, is Jack Crawford’s himself,” Will added, pointedly ignoring Alana’s scowl of disapproval.

“Okay, you know what?” She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands over her dress. “Fine. Fine, I’ll let it go. I just hope you realize what you’re getting into if you choose to start making deals with the devil.”

“And you call _me_ dramatic?” Delilah mumbled, just as Will snorted loudly.

“I think you’re giving Freddie _way_ too much credit here, Alana.”

“That woman is a snake, you said so yourself. Who knows what she wants with Delilah — hell, she probably just wants her to think she thinks she’s innocent, so she can cash in on the book deal later.”

“I didn’t kill them, god damn it!” Delilah snarled, finally reaching her limits on being both stressed and frustrated. It had been a rather eventful night and she wasn’t at all in the mood for yet another dip in the rollercoaster. “The bitch won’t cash in on anything because there is nothing to cash in on. Jack will realize it eventually, regardless of whatever Freddie Lounds puts on her stupid fucking blog, and he’ll hopefully catch whoever actually butchered those people. So, just drop it!”

“Fine!”

“Good!”

No more than five seconds of silent glowering passed between them before Hannibal cleared his throat. “Alana, would you please join me in my study for a moment? I have something to discuss with you before you leave.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alana grumbled, jerking her gaze away from Delilah as she stormed past and disappeared from the kitchen.

“We’ll only be a moment,” Hannibal assured them, tossing Delilah a quick, pleased little smile as he calmly followed her sister.

Left alone in the quiet of the kitchen, Delilah and Will shared a look before the latter picked up Hannibal’s coat from the armchair and flopped down.

“Tired as always, eh?” Delilah asked, casually taking the coat from him and neatly folding it over her arms, holding it to her chest.

He nodded slowly, rubbing his hands over his forehead and twining his fingers in his hair. As she studied him, she noticed little beads of sweat were collecting at his temples. It wasn’t overly warm in the room, to her at least; comfortable, but certainly not hot enough to sweat.

“… What the hell’s up with you?” She bent forward and waggled a finger at the moisture sliding down his face.

“Hannibal says I have a fever,” he mumbled. “S-Some kind of flu.”

“Oh.” Delilah crinkled her nose and shuffled backward, turning away to wander the kitchen a bit; the very last thing she wanted to do tonight was fall ill. She hoped Alana hadn’t caught anything from him. “You should probably get to bed soon.”

“I said go away.”

She blinked and peered questioningly over her shoulder, only to find him glaring daggers at what appeared to be nothing but a random spot on the wall. As she stared, he continued hissing at the wall; mumbling things she could barely piece together. “Wha—”

“Stop confusing me!” He nearly shouted, quickly jumping up from his seat.

“…Will?”

He suddenly jerked his head to look at her and it seemed to take him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing; he shook his head rapidly and laughed a little, then cleared his throat and stuffed the erratic fit back down. “N-Nothing. It’s—“ he turned toward the wall again and snarled through gritted teeth, “I said _shut. up._ ”

Delilah opened her mouth to call for help when Will’s eyes suddenly shot upward and bulged out of their sockets, as if seeing something massive looming just behind her, and he cried out before rushing forward to yank her toward him. She yelped in surprise as he swung her around behind himself, clearly trying to protect her from something. Her eyes rapidly scanned the spot she was just ripped from, but she saw absolutely nothing. “Dude, what the fuck?!”

“N-No— no no no,” he stammered, voice quaking with fear as he staggered backward, shoving her back along with him and ducking his head as if cowing to some monstrous beast. He backed her completely into the counter and she let out a squeak as the marble bit into her lower back; wincing in pain, she dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades as she tried with all her strength to shove him away.

He refused to budge and it was scaring her; the marble digging into her spine was beginning to ache tremendously as he pushed against her harder still. “ _HANNIBAL!_ ” She screamed as loud and as hard as she could, her throat burning from the effort.

Footfalls could be heard almost immediately and Hannibal appeared in the entrance. It took him less than a second to process the scene before he practically flew across the kitchen, ripping Will away from her and sending him hurtling him to the floor. He hit the tile with a remarkably loud _THWACK_ just as Alana came skittering ‘round the corner and into the room.

“What the—”

“Delilah, are you alright?” Hannibal asked urgently, turning his back on them to check her over. “Did he hurt you?”

She pried her eyes away from Will’s grunting and wincing to stare up at Hannibal, floundering for words from the shock of it all. “I-I’m… no?” She said, a slight rasp to her voice; she cleared her throat gently. “He-… h-he was protecting me…”

“From what?”

“I d-don’t know, he was talking to the- the wall and then just panicked.”

“It was coming for her,” Will muttered, still sounding harried but a touch less completely insane.

Hannibal wrapped his arms around her and soothingly caressed the back of her head, gently holding her to his chest as he turned to peer down at Will. She peeked over the crook of his elbow to find Alana crouched beside Will, gingerly helping him to his feet.

“It was coming for her,” he repeated, louder this time, but now he seemed to be questioning himself. “I saw it… It was reaching for—” Suddenly, he stopped himself and took a deep, shuddering breath, straightening out his shirt before absently cradling the arm he’d fallen on when Hannibal threw him. “I’m sorry,” he said, appearing lucid now. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“You sure as hell seemed awake to me,” Delilah said quietly, not budging from the safety of Hannibal’s arms. She watched as Will’s tired eyes drifted from her face to Hannibal’s, and his eyes widened a fraction before he scrubbed at his face with such intensity that it made her own eyes ache.

“What was coming for her?” Alana asked impatiently. “What did you see?”

“N-Nothing.” He shook his head and smiled sadly at them all. “I’m so sorry. Guess I have some sort of flu and the fever just got to me… I-I’ve been having issues with sleepwalking, too. That’s… why I thought maybe I f-fell asleep…”

Alana let out a perturbed huff and shook her head. “That’s it, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No!” He all but shouted at her, causing everyone to raise their eyebrows at him. With a sheepish scratch at his cheek, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I just… I’ll be okay. Just need to rest… and maybe stay away from people for a while.”

“I’ll be sure to call Jack tonight and tell him to give you a break,” Hannibal said, giving Delilah an infinitesimal squeeze before letting go and stepping toward Alana. “Please call me when you arrive in Wolf Trap — or before, if anything happens. I’ll see to it that Delilah is taken care of.”

“Of course. Thank you, Hannibal.”

He simply nodded, then turned to Will. “Should you feel worse tomorrow, I expect to know about it. Is your arm alright?”

“A little sore, but I’m fine… Nice form, by the way,” he added with a weak smile.

Hannibal chuckled lightly. “A damsel in distress tends to bring out the chivalrous knight in us all, does it not?”

With a sharp exhale out his nose, Will nodded once before glancing over to Delilah. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

“I know, Graham,” she said with a sigh, offering him a small smile to assure him that she was alright; the exhausted puppy dog look in his eyes made it tough to even stay annoyed with him for very long. “Go get some sleep, and make sure to stay hydrated.”

He nodded and slowly trudged out of the room.

“See you later,” Alana said, nodding to Delilah before following after Will.

Neither Hannibal nor Delilah moved a muscle as they both listened to the steady retreat of footfalls, followed by a short stint of quiet shuffling — presumably as they gathered their belongings — then a dull _thud_ as the front door was pulled shut behind them.

Hannibal looked to the floor and scooped up his suit jacket, turning to toss Delilah a questioning glance.

“I was holding it while we waited for you to come back; dropped it when he freaked out.”

“Ah,” was all he said, carefully laying the garment upon the kitchen island before turning to approach her. He paused a foot away, holding his arms open for her, and she quickly snugged herself against him, shutting her eyes as she pressed her cheek to his chest.

He folded his arms around her and she shivered as his warmth seeped into her skin. “I hope he’s going to be alright,” she whispered. “Hallucinating so extremely from a fever seems like a pretty serious side effect of the flu…”

Hannibal merely hummed and whether it was in agreement or contemplation she wasn’t entirely sure, but the rumbling of it in his chest sent tingles down her spine.

“Should I be worried about Alana?”

Tucking his chin to his chest, he took in a steady breath and exhaled slowly into her hair. “I don’t think so,” he finally murmured, his lips brushing lightly against the top of her head. “Regardless, whatever happens, Alana can handle herself.”

“Oh, and I can’t?” She asked, feigning offense as she tilted her head back and craned her neck to look up at him. “Such a delicate little damsel I am that I need a big, strong man to wrap me in his arms and keep me safe?”

Hannibal peered down at her for a long moment, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. He canted his head and began lazily raking his fingers through her hair, studying her face before letting out a soft sigh. “Such a pretty pout,” he mused, skirting his thumb across her bottom lip; she slipped her tongue out to taste his skin as it passed and in an instant his mouth was upon hers.

She hummed in contentment as she welcomed his skilled tongue past her lips, enjoying the lingering hints of coffee and burnt sugar as she allowed him to muscle her backward. They staggered in tandem out of the kitchen, her hands gripping and caressing him any and everywhere she could manage, whilst his own reached out blindly around them both to avoid knocking her into anything.

When they finally managed to meander their way out and up to the top of the staircase, she haphazardly began to tug at his tie and he allowed it for a few more stumbling paces before gently shoving her hands away and pulling back to grin down at her.

He slipped loose the knot with one hand and tugged the tie over his head with ease as he reached around behind her with the other, pressing her heavily into the door as he twisted the knob and pushed it open. She yelped as she lost her balance and teetered backward into the room, but he caught her by the elbow just in time and simply cocked a devilish brow at her as she shot him a nasty look.

“Trust is learned,” he said softly. “Know that I will always catch you.”

Delilah squinted up at him for a long moment, then huffed lightly and rolled her eyes as she turned to assess her new surroundings.

Through the soft light of a couple table lamps, she found Hannibal’s bedroom to be as lush and elegantly crafted as she had come to expect; it was cozy, yet very orderly and impeccably clean, and she absently wondered if he had a secret room somewhere, where he threw all the things people didn’t need to see —like the hallway closet she and Alana always crammed excess clutter into when they knew company was on its way.

Slipping out of her heels and setting them neatly aside, she watched Hannibal out the corner of her eye as he removed his shoes as well and crossed to the fireplace, laying his tie over a nearby chair; he grabbed a small remote from the mantle of the massive hearth, pressed a couple buttons, and it was set ablaze at once.

He glanced over his shoulder and chuckled softly. “Electric,” he said as he set the remote back down, answering the unspoken question that was clearly written on her face.

“Mm, neat,” she muttered, not _really_ caring about the fireplace. He started toward her as he slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt and she cleared her throat softly. “Here,” she said, swiftly bridging the gap between them, “let me help.”

“Feeling impatient?” He teased, smirking down at her as she unbuttoned the garment and began shoving it off his broad shoulders at once. That grin should infuriate her, but it only served to send the butterflies in her stomach into a tizzy.

“And what if I am?” She replied evenly, skirting her palms across his midsection to grip at his undershirt and tug it up out of his slacks. “You’ve made me wait entirely long enough, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

The deeply amused smile never left his lips as he slowly tugged the shirt off and proceeded to fold it rather than simply toss it aside — and now it began to irritate her. Her fingers danced impatiently toward his belt buckle and her lips twisted into a wicked grin as a particularly delicious idea suddenly came to mind.

 

…

 

As he watched the corners of her lips curl upward, Hannibal canted his head and blinked bemusedly. He opened his mouth to ask, but found himself rendered quite speechless when she then dropped delicately to her knees before him; the undershirt he had been using to toy with her was fast forgotten and he immediately let it drop to the floor.

Wasting no time, now that she had his full attention, Delilah began tugging at his belt with such fervor that he would have laughed had he not been so eager, himself — it was quite a sight to behold, and better still once she had freed him from the confines of his slacks. She licked her lips, sending a shock of desire straight to his pelvis as she stared and seemed to deliberate on how to begin.

Adjusting his footing to keep himself steady, he threaded the fingers of one hand through her curls and gently guided her mouth forward. Those plump, painfully gorgeous lips of hers were stunning to witness wrapped around him, and he groaned as the warmth of her mouth gradually welcomed him an inch or so inside. The urge to simply shove her head down onto him completely was nearly overwhelming, but he forced himself to refrain. She took care with him; getting to know his length and girth; trying different, tantalizing little things with her tongue; and all the while she would stare up at him with those sweet doe eyes, soaking in every twitch and gasp of his with rapt attention.

It didn’t take her long at all to discover just how he liked it. With her index finger and thumb squeezing firmly around the base, she began guiding him farther and farther down her throat — allowing the head to knock past her uvula and still farther down he went — and he marveled at her as he felt her tonsils press perfectly snug against him.

When her lips eventually met her fingers, she moaned low and deep in her throat and Hannibal let out a startled gasp, the hand in her hair gripping tighter to her curls. He felt her grin smugly around him before she slowly began to ease back, applying suction in steadily increasing increments as she leaned farther and farther away. He let go of her hair as she fully released him with an obscene _pop! —_ then went right back to it before he could so much as think of a word with which to protest.

Not that he wanted her to stop… but the constant, blissful assault of her mouth was threatening to propel him over the edge much sooner than he would prefer; before he knew it, he was an absolute mess of gasps and groans as she grew accustomed to him invading her throat. She was able to move faster and with more efficiency now — applying suction at times he wasn’t entirely sure were humanly possible.

With her free hand latched onto his thigh for stability’s sake, she simply moaned in clear understanding of his predicament and swiftly redoubled her efforts. The tenuous grip he had on his self-control vanished at once and he couldn’t stop himself from gripping the back of her head, with both hands, to shove her down onto him — _hard._

 

…

 

Delilah let out a muffled yelp of surprise and dug her fingernails into his skin, trying to concentrate on not panicking as her nose was obstructed and breathing was fast becoming an issue. But as quickly as he’d slammed her down, he was yanking her back up to her feet entirely by her hair. She hissed in pain, then moaned deliriously as he wrapped an arm around her waist and crashed his lips against hers. He was almost manic in his movements, his hands everywhere at once, and soon she found herself flipped around to face the bed.

Sinking his teeth into the tender spot between her neck and shoulder, she cried out as he forced her dress to the floor and filled his hands with her breasts, giving them a brief massage as he kissed and licked at her neck before whipping her back around to face him.

The darkness in his eyes was intoxicating and her fingers dove into his hair as she threw herself into his arms, taking control as best she could as she sought to taste his lips again. Pennies coated her tongue and she knew she must be bleeding from him — again — but she couldn’t care less. She moaned at the taste and he growled into her mouth in response, his hands ripping blindly at her underwear and reducing the delicate lace to tatters.

His hand was suddenly on her throat and he guided her back onto the bed, pressing her down into the plush duvet before letting go and stepping back to hastily kick out of the rest of his own clothes.

Shuffling to the center of the bed, she watched him pull a condom from the nightstand as her hand instinctively skirted down to tend to the ache between her thighs. He tutted softly as he made quick work of slipping the condom on, then snatched both her wrists, pinning them to the pillows beside her head as he situated himself between her legs. She whined with need as his head just barely brushed against her slick folds and her hips twitched beneath him.

“Please, Hannibal,” she pleaded softly, to which he chuckled wickedly in her ear.

“Mm?” He hummed, teasing his hips a little lower. “Tell me what you want.”

“I-I want _you_ , god damn it,” she whined, her hands flexing repeatedly with her desire to paw at him and force him inside of her. “God, _please_ …”

“I do love hearing you beg.” His hips moved lower still, but he slid no more than an inch inside of her before retreating again.

“You’re killing me,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Just fuck me, you son of a—”

Hannibal caught her lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing her moans and gasps as he teased his way further inside before finally snapping his hips down and forward to fill her completely.

As he did, he released her wrists and she was free to claw at his back as hard as she pleased. Digging her nails into his shoulder blades, she raked them across his skin as she cried out for him to fuck her harder, and he complied without the slightest hesitation; he suddenly straightened up to grab hold of her thighs, then hooked her knees over his shoulders and leaned forward again, causing her to gasp and scream his name as the new angle let him find the perfect spot that sent her careening over the edge.

Hannibal lowered her legs and slowed his thrusts as she came back down, but he didn’t stop, and she let out a strangled sob as he kissed her with enough passion to make the erratic thrumming of her heart skip itself steady. He tenderly brushed a few unruly curls from her face and wiped moisture from her cheek.

“Have I hurt you?” He asked huskily and she smiled as she shook her head.

“Yes,” she replied, biting back a laugh at the immediate confusion etched on his face, “but I love it. Don’t stop.”

He blinked once at her and something incomprehensible flashed in his eyes before his lips curled up into a deeply satisfied smile and he kissed her breathless again. His hips kept a steady rhythm all the while and soon her own began to follow suit; they moved as one and she vaguely comprehended that this wasn’t just wanton fucking anymore — he was making love to her.

The realization brought the butterflies back in full force and in an effort to ignore them she pushed a hand into his hair and yanked him down for another kiss as she flexed her Kegel muscles around him. He groaned into her mouth and his hips stuttered before they began snapping harder against hers again. She squeezed her legs tight around his waist and met each thrust with as much enthusiasm as her exhausted body would allow; soon enough, it was his turn to cry out her name amidst a slew of profanities and she came a final time along with him.

 

——————

 

_Somewhere along the I-95 South_

_Approx. 10:30PM_

After forty minutes or so of feeling steadily crushed by the all-encompassing weight of the silence in the cabin, Alana finally let out a sigh and reached for the radio. As the top 40’s hits seeped from the speakers at a low volume, she heard Will exhale loudly and mutter, “ _Oh, thank god._ ”

“If you wanted music, you could have said something.”

Will sniffed lightly and she caught him shrug out the corner of her eye. “Thought you wanted it quiet.”

“I thought _you_ wanted it quiet,” she muttered with a halfhearted snort. He laughed lightly but didn’t speak again and she cleared her throat. “So, uh, do you want to talk about—“

“No.”

“Okay…”

He suddenly rubbed his face vigorously and let out a violent exhale. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’d rather not casually discuss how I’m progressively losing my mind just to pass the time.”

“Does Jack know what’s been going on with you?”

“No- …Well, I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” She asked, a bit more incredulously than intended.

“Well, I don’t know what Hannibal’s said about me, but _I_ haven’t told him anything he doesn’t need to know. It hasn’t effected my ability to do my job—”

“Yet.”

“Whatever.”

Gripping the steering wheel tight enough to whiten her knuckles, Alana took a deep breath to keep her temper steady. “You’re having hallucinations… Sleepwalking… Don’t you think he needs to know?”

“Well Hannibal claimed he’d tell Jack to get off my back — that should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

“… He _claimed_?” She repeated, puzzled. When he didn’t respond, she chanced a sideways glance at him but he was studiously avoiding eye contact, as always. “Don’t you trust Doctor Lecter?”

“After what I saw— I-I don’t know who I can trust anymore. I can barely trust myself.”

“What—"

“Never mind, Alana.”

Alana huffed and smacked the wheel before gripping it tighter again, cursing under her breath as she realized she was going to miss their exit. “God damn it, Will!” She snapped, scowling into the rear and side-view mirrors before wrenching the steering wheel to the right, to cut clear across three lanes of traffic, and whipping onto the off-ramp just in time. “What the _hell_ is going on with you?”

“Jesus, what the hell’s going on with _you_?!” He snarled back, his hands gripping the dash for dear life.

“Oh shut up. Heaven forbid I miss the exit and you have to spend an extra twenty minutes in this car with me!”

“What? Alana—”

“Never mind, Will.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, am I?” She all but shrieked, shooting a nasty look to a disgruntled passer-by. “I’m so tired of all this bullshit. Why the fuck does everyone feel the need to keep secrets around here, huh? We’re friends, Will. At least, I thought we were—”

“We are!”

“Then why are you shutting me out?!”

Even the music couldn’t help lessen the impact of the silence that punctuated the cabin for the remainder of the drive. Will refused to reply and Alana was too exhausted to argue anymore. They sped past his discarded Volvo again and she fully expected him to hop out of the car the moment they stopped, but he stayed put. Slowly, she put the car in park and let go of the wheel, flexing her hands to soothe her aching knuckles. When he still didn’t budge, she killed the engine and turned to face him. “Are we gonna sit here all night or what?”

Refusing to meet her eyes, he kept his gaze on the barn in the distance. “I’m s-sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… I can’t explain it. I don’t know how to—”

“You can try.”

Will pursed his lips and shook his head. “D-Do you want to come inside for a minute? I can make coffee or… tea, or something.”

She stared at him long enough for his weary eyes to finally make their way to hers and her heart squeezed. He looked so run-down, so thoroughly exhausted, she wished she could read his mind — if only for a moment — and know what exactly he was struggling with.

“Tea sounds nice,” she eventually replied.

One corner of his mouth pulled upward for just a fraction of a second, before he was suddenly removing himself from the vehicle. She blinked as she watched him hurry around the car and, rather than wait for her, he simply made a beeline for the front door. Sighing heavily, she yanked the key out of the ignition and followed after him.

She took the steps slowly, passing the threshold and shutting the door behind herself. Gentle clinking could be heard from the kitchen, so she tentatively followed the sounds. She found Will moving almost mechanically around the kitchen, filling two cups with water from the tap and placing them in the microwave.

“Will?”

He froze, but didn’t turn, and whispered shakily, “Can y-… W-Would you stay with me tonight? Not in any sort of… way. I just— I am… afraid… to be alone.”

Alana inhaled sharply and swallowed the lump of nerves that had suddenly gathered in her throat. “Of course. But—”

“But?” The microwave beeped and he jammed his thumb onto the button to open it, but stayed otherwise still.

“But I need you to explain. Hannibal is my sister’s psychiatrist; she’s alone with him at least once a week. And I trusted him to get her home safely tonight. If you have concerns about him… Will?” He finally twisted around to face her and she dipped her head to catch his eye. “Will,” she repeated firmly, “I need to know.”

 

——————

 

For several minutes, they stayed firmly entwined and all Delilah could hear was their labored breaths and the gradual steadying of their hearts; with the warmth and weight of Hannibal pressing down on her, she very nearly fell asleep. Before she could fully drift off, however, he suddenly shifted his weight to his arms and hoisted himself up; she groaned softly at the lack of contact as he slipped out from between her legs and cracked one eye open to watch him disappear into the connected bathroom.

Yawning softly, Delilah stretched out her legs and winced at the ache already presenting itself in her hips and thighs. It’d been quite a while since she’d been essentially folded in half and her body was retroactively protesting.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal called, leaning half out to check on her.

“Mm-hm. Not entirely sure I’ll be able to walk straight anytime soon, but I’m alive,” she replied, shutting her eyes again and grinning as she listened to his soft chuckles.

A chill swept over her naked body and she grumbled in annoyance before rolling off the bed to stand on dangerously shaky legs. Tugging the bedclothes down, she quickly slipped beneath them and ensconced herself within the soft linens, claiming the right side of the bed as her own for the foreseeable future. Just as she was nearly ready to fall asleep again, a ringing sounded from somewhere downstairs and she peeked over her shoulder to watch Hannibal slip into a pair of boxers; he crossed to give her a kiss on the forehead and bade her to sleep, then left to answer the phone.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she murmured around another yawn, tugging the duvet more snug around her shoulders before sinking into the pillow and finally tumbling headfirst into dreamland.

 

…

 

Delilah’s gentle snores followed Hannibal as he made his way barefoot down the stairs, and despite his best efforts he could not force the pervasive smile away from his face. It was clearly audible in his tone even when he answered the phone with a proper, yet succinct, “Good evening, Doctor Lecter speaking.”

“Wow, you’re in a good mood,” Alana answered, her voice hardly above a whisper.

“Yes. May I ask why you’re hissing at me?”

“Will’s asleep and I don’t want to disturb him.”

“Oh good, he needs rest. I’m pleased to know you arrived safely; if anything happens, do let me—”

“No, wait!” Alana snapped, letting out an exasperated huff. He could hear shuffling and the quick tapping of her feet then, before a door was swiftly opened and closed. She was evidently outside now, as she spoke much more audibly when she finally continued. “Listen, someone needs to convince Will to go to the hospital. I think he actually is losing his mind.”

Hannibal quirked a brow and leaned back against the bannister, intrigued. “Oh?”

“Yes. He-… He told me he saw a dark creature in your kitchen tonight and that’s why he panicked. Said it was coming for Delilah and he had to protect her.”

“How noble of him.”

“It’s sweet, but he also mentioned that he was concerned about…”

Tamping down an annoyed sigh, Hannibal straightened up and cocked his head, silently willing her to spit it out. When she hesitated still, he cleared his throat pointedly and asked, “About…?”

“A-About you.”

He found himself mildly surprised, at first, but figured it was bound to happen eventually. “And what about me concerns him?”

Another pregnant silence followed and Hannibal was thoroughly losing his patience. “Alana, I would like to get some sleep tonight…”

“I-I know. I’m sorry. He just said he had good reason not to trust you anymore. When I asked him what his reasoning was, he wouldn’t say. He just started muttering to himself and he said something about, ‘finally starting to catch glimpses of the man behind the curtain.’ …and then he fell asleep.”

“Babbling about _The Wizard of Oz,_ now? How quaint.” He snorted lightly and shifted the phone to his other ear. “Alana, Will is a very sick man. My hope is that some solid rest will help him kick this flu. But if he is still hallucinating tomorrow, we may need more forceful persuasion."

“Are you suggesting we have him committed?”

“To a hospital bed and an IV, perhaps. Alana, he is as sane as you and me — he’s just having a difficult time right now. Perhaps if I can persuade Jack to keep him from work, he will be more inclined to take better care of himself moving forward.”

“A-Alright.”

“Will you be staying with him?”

“I- well, yes, I’d planned—”

“Good. Your presence seems to have a positive effect — he’s finally getting some sleep, at the very least.” She didn’t respond, but he could nearly feel her cheeks flush through the phone. “Try to get some rest, yourself, Alana.”

“I will.”

“Very good. You should also know that Delilah is staying the night here. She was rather shaken by the entire ordeal, and quite exhausted, so I set her up in my guest bedroom. I haven’t had a chance to tell her about the paperwork.”

“Oh I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Alana grumbled, and he rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I imagine the knowledge that she can begin to rebuild a life on her own and won’t have to be a bother to you any longer will be quite thrilling.”

“She’s not a bother!”

“Whether she is or isn’t does not change how she feels. Remember that you tried your best, but this will be better for both of you. Good night, Alana.”

“…Night, Hannibal. Thank you.”

Hanging up, Hannibal checked the front door and locked the deadbolt, then found Jack Crawford’s number in his contact list and left him a quick voicemail regarding Will’s present condition. Though he did his part in strongly advising that Jack leave him be, for at least a few days, he highly doubted the man would heed his suggestion — not that it mattered much to him.

Taking one last look at the table setting he had taken such care to piece together for her, he opted to leave disassembly for the morning and shut off the light before making his way back up the steps. Given he was so used to the silence of his home at this hour, he thought the presence of her there, sound asleep in his bed, should have annoyed him. But it didn’t. Far from it, even, he found her gentle snores and sighs as oddly soothing as he had the day she’d fallen asleep in his car.

After darkening the room, Hannibal paused at the right side of the bed to watch her for a long moment, his hand reaching out to brush a curl from her face; she hummed sweetly in her sleep, her face tilting infinitesimally toward his palm. He slipped beneath the covers at her side and all it took to bring her into his arms was a gentle nudge to her lower back; she breathed his name around a sigh and as he pulled her tighter to himself, some voice in the back of his mind protested…

_Was he letting her too close, too soon?_

_And if so — if everything fell apart — was he still willing to do what was necessary?_

If he was being completely honest with himself, it was never really a question — he would kill her, if ever the need arose, and it would be all too easy. For once, however, Hannibal found himself adamantly hoping that such a need would never, ever present itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm sorry it's been a stupid amount of time since I last updated... Also, that this chapter is so arguably short, but I hope to have future chapters out in a much more reasonable amount of time. Thank you for your patience!


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